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POLITE  FARCES 


BY  ARNOLD  BENNETT 


Novels 

THE  OLD  WIVES'  TALE 

HELEN  WITH  THE  HIGH  HAND 

THE  MATADOR  OF  THE  FIVE  TOWNS 

THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

BURIED  ALIVE 

A  GREAT  MAN 

LEONORA 

WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

A  MAN  FROM  THE  NORTH 

ANNA  OF  THE  FIVE  TOWNS 

THE  GLIMPSE 

Pocket  Philosophies 

HOW  TO  LIVE  ON  24  HOURS  A  DAY 
THE  HUMAN  MACHINE 
LITERARY  TASTE 
MENTAL  EFFICIENCY 

Plays 

CUPID  AND  COMMONSENSE  :    A  Play 
WHAT  THE  PUBLIC  WANTS:    A  Play 
POLITE  FARCES:    Three  Plays 
MILESTONES:    A  Play 
THE  HONEYMOON:     A  Play 

Miscellaneous 

THE  TRUTH  ABOUT  AN  AUTHOR 
THE  FEAST  OF  ST.  FRIEND 


GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK 


POLITE    FARCES 

FOR  THE  DRAWING-ROOM 


BY 


ARNOLD    BENNETT 

Author  of  "The  Old  Wives'  Talc," 
'How  to  Live  on  Twenty-four  Hours  a  Day,"  etc. 


GEORGE    H.     DORAN    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


rh. 

£^1  f% 


UBWABY 

rrATE  TEACHERS  couLeat 

•ANTA   BARBARA.    ^*  .      ORMtA 


TO 

F.  C.  B. 

MY    BROTHER    AND    COLLEAGUE 


NOTE 

The  three  farces  comprising  the  present  book 
have  been  written  for  drawing-room  pcrfonnance. 
Dumas  yere,  the  father  of  modem  drama,  once 
said  that  all  he  needed  was  "  four  trestles,  four 
boards,  two  actors,  and  a  passion."  For  myself,  I 
have  dispensed  with  the  trestles,  the  boards,  and 
the  passion,  since  none  of  these  things  is  suitable 
for  a  drawing-room.  The  only  apparatus  neces- 
sary to  the  presentation  of  the  pieces  is  ordinary 
costume,  ordinary  furniture,  and  a  single  door 
for  entrance  and  exit. 

A.  B. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Stepmother.  {Farce  in  One  Act)  ...  5 
A  Good  Woman  {Farce  in  One  Act)  .  .  .  .  39 
A  Question  of  Sex  {Farce  in  One  Act)  ...     69 


THE  STEPMOTHER 

FARCE  IN  ONE  ACT 


CHARACTERS 

Cora  Prout,  a  Popular  Novelist  and  a  Widow,  SO. 

Adrian  Prout,  her  Stepson,  20. 

Thomas  Gardner,  a  Doctor,  35. 

Christine  Feversham,  Mrs.   Prout's   Secretary,  20. 


THE  STEPMOTHER 

Scene. —  Mrs.  Proufs  study:  luxuriously  fur- 
nished; large  table  in  centre,  upon  which  are  a 
new  novel,  press-cuttings,  and  the  usual  ap- 
paratus of  literary  composition.  Christine  is 
seated  at  tlie  large  table,  ready  for  work,  and 
awaiting  the  advent  of  Mrs.  Prout.  To  pass 
the  time  she  picks  up  the  novel,  the  leaves  of 
which  are  not  cut,  and  glances  at  a  page  here 
and  there.  Enter  Mrs.  Prout,  hurried  and 
preoccupied;  tJie  famous  novelist  is  attired  in 
a  plain  morning  goxcn,  which  in  the  perfection 
of  its  cut  displays  the  beauty  of  her  figure. 
She  nods  absently  to  Christine,  and  sits  down 
in  an  armchair  away  from  the  table. 

Christine.  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Prout.  I'm 
afraid  you  are  still  sleeping  badly. 

Mrs.  Prout.     Do  I  look  it,  girl  ? 

Christine.  You  don't  specially  look  it,  Mrs. 
Prout.  But  I  observe.  You  are  my  third  novel- 
ist, and  they  have  all  taught  me  to  observe.  Be- 
fore I  took  up  novelists  I  was  with  a  Member  of 
Parliament,  and  he  never  observed  anything  ex- 
cept five-line  whips. 

Mrs.  Prout.  Really  !  Five-line  whips  !  Oblige 
5 


6  THE  STEPMOTHER 

me  by  putting  that  down  in  Notebook  No.  2. 
There  will  be  an  M.P.  in  that  wretched  thirty- 
thousand  word  thing  I've  promised  for  the  Christ- 
mas number  of  the  New  York  Surpriser  and  it 
might  be  useful.  I  might  even  make  an  epigram 
out  of  it. 

Christine.     Yes,  Mrs.  Front  \_writes']. 

Mrs.  Prouf.  And  what  are  your  observations 
about  me.'* 

Christine  \_while  writingl.  Well,  this  is  twice  in 
three  weeks  that  you've  been  here  five  minutes  late 
in  the  morning. 

Mrs.  Prout.  Is  that  all.?  You  don't  think  my 
stuff's  falling  off? 

Christine.  Oh,  no,  Mrs.  Prout !  I  know  it's  not 
falling  off.  I  was  just  going  to  tell  you.  The 
butler's  been  in,  and  wished  me  to  infonn  you  that 
he  begged  to  give  notice  [looJcing  up^.  It  seems 
that  last  night  you  ordered  him  to  cut  the  leaves 
of  our  new  novel  ^[patting  hooJc  maternally'\.  He 
said  he  just  looked  into  it,  and  he  thinks  it's  dis- 
graceful to  ask  a  respectable  butler  to  cut  the 
leaves  of  such  a  book.  So  he  begs  to  give  warn- 
ing. Oh,  no,  Mrs.  Prout,  your  stuff  isn't  fall- 
ing off. 

Mrs.  Prout  [grmZ?/].  What  did  you  say  to 
him,  girl? 

Christine.  First  I  looked  at  him,  and  then  I  said, 
"  Brown,  you  will  probably  be  able  to  get  a  place 
on  the  reviewing  staff  of  The  Methodist  Recorder.*' 


THE  STEPMOTHER  7 

Mrs.  Prout.  Christine,  one  day,  I  really  be- 
lieve, you  will  come  to  employ  a  secretary  of  your 
own. 

Christine.  I  hope  so,  Mrs.  Prout.  But  I  in- 
tend to  keep  off  the  morbid  introspection  line. 
You  do  that  so  awfully  well.  I  think  I  shall  go 
in  for  smart  dialogue,  with  marquises  and  country 
houses,  and  a  touch  of  old-fashioned  human  nature 
at  the  bottom.  It  appears  to  me  that's  what's 
coming  along  very  shortly.  .  ,  ,  Shall  we  be- 
gin, Mrs.  Prout? 

Mrs.  Prout  [disinclined'].  Yes,  I  suppose  so 
[clearing  her  throat].  By  the  way,  anything  spe- 
cial in  the  press-cuttings  ? 

Christine.  Nothing  very  special  [fingering  the 
pile  of  press-cuttings].  The  Morning  Call  says, 
"  genius  in  every  line." 

Mrs.  Prout  [blase].     Hum? 

Christine.  The  Daily  Reporter:  "  Cora  Prout 
may  be  talented  —  we  should  hesitate  to  deny  it  — 
but  she  is  one  of  several  of  our  leading  novelists 
who  should  send  themselves  to  a  Board  School  in 
order  to  learn  grammar." 

Mrs.  Prout.  Grammar  again !  They  must  keep 
a  grammar  in  the  office !  Personally  I  think  it's 
frightfully  bad  form  to  talk  about  grammar  to  a 
lady.  But  they  never  had  any  taste  at  the  Re- 
porter. Don't  read  me  any  more.  Let  us  com- 
mence work. 

Christine.     Wlilch   will    you   do,    Mrs.    Prout.'* 


8  THE  STEPMOTHER 

[^consulting  a  diary  of  engagements.^  There's  the 
short  story  for  the  Illustrated  MontMy,  six  thou- 
sand, promised  for  next  Saturday.  There's  the 
article  on  "  Women's  Diversions  "  for  the  British 
Review  —  they  wrote  for  that  yesterday.  There's 
the  serial  that  begins  in  the  Sunday  Daily  Sentin£l 
in  September  —  you've  only  done  half  the  first  in- 
stalment of  that.  And  of  course  there's  Heart 
Ache. 

Mrs.  Prout.  I  think  I'll  go  on  with  Heart  Ache. 
I  feel  it  coming.  I'll  do  the  short  story  for  the 
Illustrated  to-morrow.     Where  had  I  got  to? 

Christine  \_choosing  the  correct  notebook, 
reads^.  "  The  inanimate  form  of  the  patient  lay 
like  marble  on  the  marble  slab  of  the  operating- 
table.  '  The  sponge,  Nurse,'  said  the  doctor, 
*  where  is  it?  '  "     That's  where  you'd  got  to. 

Mrs.  Prout.  Yes.  I  remember.  New  line. 
"  Isabel  gazed  at  him  imperturbably."  New  line. 
Quote-marks.  "  '  I  fear,  Doctor,'  she  remarked, 
'  that  in  a  moment  of  forgetfulness  you  have  sewn 
it  up  in  our  poor  patient.'  "  New  line.  Quote- 
marks.  "  '  Damn ! '  said  the  doctor,  '  so  I  have.'  " 
Rather  good,  that,  Christine,  eh?  \_Christine 
•writes  in  shortliand.~\ 

Christine.  Oh,  Mrs.  Prout,  I  think  it's  beauti- 
ful. So  staccato  and  crisp.  By  the  way,  I  forgot 
to  tell  you  that  there's  a  leader  in  the  Daily  Snail 
on  that  friglitful  anonymous  attack  in  the  Forum 
against  your  medical  accuracy   \loo1cing  at  Mrs. 


THE  STEPMOTHER  9 

Prouty  who  is  silent,  but  shows  signs  of  agitation'\. 
You  remember  — "  JNIedicine  in  Fiction."  The 
Snail  backs  up  the  Forum  for  all  it's  worth. 
.  Mrs.  Prout,  you  are  ill.  I  was  sure  you 
were.     What  can  I  get  for  you  ? 

Mrs.  Prout  [^weaMi/  wiping  her  eyes'].  Non- 
sense, Christine.  I  am  a  little  unstrung,  that  is 
all.     I  want  nothing. 

Christine.  Your  imagination  is  too  much  for 
you. 

Mrs.  Prout  {mee1dy'\.     Perhaps  so. 

Christine  {jtrmly].  But  it  isn't  all  due  to  an 
abnormal  imagination.  You've  never  been  quite 
cheerful  since  you  turned  Mr.  Adrian  out. 

Mrs.  Prout.     You  forget  yourself,  Christine. 

Christine.  I  forget  nothing,  Mrs.  Prout,  my- 
self least  of  all.  Mr.  Adrian  is  your  dead  hus- 
band's son,  and  you  turned  him  out  of  your  house, 
and  now  you're  sorry. 

Mrs.  Prout.  Christine,  you  know  perfectly  well 
that  I  —  er  —  requested  him  to  go  because  he 
would  insist  on  making  love  to  you,  which  inter- 
fered with  our  work.  Besides,  it  was  not  quite  nice 
for  a  man  to  make  love  to  the  secretary  of  his  step- 
mother. I  wonder  you  are  indelicate  enough  to 
refer  to  the  matter.  You  should  never  have  per- 
mitted his  advances. 

Christine.  I  didn't  permit  them.  I  wasn't 
asked  to.  I  tolerated  them.  I  hadn't  been  secre- 
tary to  a  lady-novelist  with  a  stepson  before,  and  I 


10  THE  STEPMOTHER 

wasn't  quite  sure  what  was  included  in  the  duties. 
I  always  like  to  give  satisfaction. 

Mrs.  Prout.  You  do  give  satisfaction.  Let 
that  end  the  discussion. 

Christine  \^pouting;  turning  to  her  notebook; 
reads^ .  "  '  Damn ! '  said  the  doctor,  'sol  have  '  " 
[pausel.  "'Damn!'  said  the  doctor,  *  so  I 
have  '  "  ![pause'] . 

Mrs.  Prout.  Christine,  did  you  find  out  who 
was  the  author  of  that  article  on  "  Medicine  in 
Fiction".? 

Christine.  Is  that  what's  bothering  you,  Mrs. 
Prout.?  Of  course  it  was  a  nasty  attack,  but  it  is 
very  unlike  you  to  trouble  about  critics. 

Mrs.  Prout.  It  has  hurt  me  more  than  I  can 
say.  That  was  why  I  asked  you  to  make  a  few 
discreet  inquiries. 

Christine.     I  did  ask  at  my  club. 

3Irs.  Prout.     And  what  did  they  think  there? 

Christine.  They  laughed  at  me,  and  said  every 
one  knew  you  had  written  it  yourself  just  to  keep 
the  silly  season  alive,  July  being  a  sickly  month 
for  reputations. 

3Irs.  Prout.     What  did  you  say  to  that? 

Christine.     I  should  prefer  not  to  repeat  it. 

Mrs.  Prout.  Christine,  I  insist.  Your  modesty 
is  becoming  a  disease. 

Christine.     I  said  they  were  fools 

Mrs.  Prout.  A  little  abrupt,  perhaps,  but  ef- 
fective. 


THE  STEPMOTHER  11 

Christine.  Not  to  see  that  the  grammar  was 
different  from  ours. 

Mrs.  Prout.  Oh !  that  was  what  you  said, 
was  it? 

Christine.     It  was,  and  it  settled  them. 

Mrs.  Prout  {^assuming  a  confidential  airl. 
Clu'istinc,  I  beheve  I  know  who  wrote  that  ar- 
ticle. 

Ch  rist  ine.     Who  ? 

Mrs.  Prout.     Dr.  Gardner  \hursts  into  tears'\. 

Christine  [soothing  her'\.  But  he  lives  on  the 
floor  below,  in  the  very  flat  underneath  this. 

Mrs.  Prout  {^choMng  hack  her  sohs^.  Yes.  It 
is  too  dreadful. 

Christine.  But  he  comes  here  nearly  every  even- 
ing. 

Mrs.  Prout  [s/mrpZ?/].     Who  told  you  that? 

Christine.  Now,  IVIrs.  Prout,  let  me  implore  you 
to  be  calm.  The  butler  told  me.  I  didn't  ask 
him,  and  as  I  cannot  be  expected  to  foretell  what 
my  employer's  butler  will  say  before  he  opens  his 
mouth,  I  am  not  to  blame  [compresses  her  lips'\. 
Shall  we  continue? 

Mrs.  Prout.  Christine,  do  you  think  it  was  Dr. 
Gardner?     I  would  give  worlds  to  know. 

Christine  [coldly  analytic'\.  Do  you  mean  that 
you  would  give  worlds  to  know  that  it  was  Dr. 
Gardner,  or  that  it  wasn't  Dr.  Gardner  ?  Or  would 
give  worlds  merely  to  know  the  author's  name  —  no 
matter  who  he  might  be? 


12  THE  STEPMOTHER 

Mrs.  Prout  [^sighmgl.  You  are  dreadfully  un- 
sympathetic this  morning. 

Christine.  I  am  placid,  nothing  else.  Please 
recollect  that  when  you  engaged  me  you  asked  if 
you  might  rely  on  me  to  be  placid,  as  your  pre- 
vious secretary,  when  you  dictated  the  pathetic 
chapters,  had  wept  so  freely  into  her  notebook  that 
she  couldn't  transcribe  her  stuff,  besides  perma- 
nently injuring  her  eyesight.  Since  you  ask  my 
opinion  as  to  Dr.  Gardner  being  the  author  of  this 
attack  on  you,  I  say  that  he  isn't.  Apart  from  the 
facts  that  he  lives  on  the  floor  below,  and  that  he 
is,  so  the  butler  says,  a  constant  visitor  in  the  even- 
ings, there  is  the  additional  fact  —  a  fact  which  I 
have  several  times  observed  for  myself  without  the 
assistance  of  the  butler  —  that  he  likes  you. 

Mrs.  Prout.  You  have  noticed  that.  It  is  true. 
But  the  question  is:  Does  he  like  me  sufficiently 
not  to  attack  my  work  in  the  public  press  ?  That 
is  the  point.  The  writer  of  that  cruel  article  be- 
gins by  saying  that  he  has  no  personal  animus,  and 
that  he  is  actuated  solely  by  an  enthusiasm  for  the 
cause  of  medicine  and  the  medical  profession. 

Christine.  You  mean  to  infer,  Mrs.  Prout,  that 
the  author  of  the  article  might,  as  a  man,  like  you, 
while  as  a  doctor  he  despised  you.'* 

Mrs.  Prout  [whimpering  again'\.  That  is  my 
suspicion. 

Christine.  But  Dr.  Gardner  does  more  than  like 
you.     He  adores  you. 


THE  STEPMOTHER  13 

Mrs.  Prout.  He  adores  my  talent,  my  genius, 
my  fame,  my  wealth ;  but  docs  he  adore  me?  I  am 
not  an  ordinary  woman,  and  it  is  no  use  pretend- 
ing that  I  am.     I  must  think  of  these  things. 

Christine.  Neither  is  Dr.  Gardner  an  ordinary 
doctor.     His  researches  into  toxicology 

Mrs.  Prout.  His  researches  are  nothing  to  me. 
I  wish  he  wasn't  a  doctor  at  all. 

Christine.  Even  doctors  have  their  place  in  the 
world,  Mrs.  Prout. 

Mrs.  Prout.  They  should  not  meddle  with  fic- 
tion, poking  their  noses 

Christine.  But  if  fiction  meddles  with  them? 
You  know  fiction  is  really  very  meddle- 
some.    It  pokes  its  nose  with  great  industry. 

Mrs.  Prout  \_pullvng  herself  together!^.  Chris- 
tine, you  have  never  understood  me.  Let  us  con- 
tinue. 

Christine  [with  an  offended  air,  turning  once 
more  to  her  notebool''\.  "  '  Damn! '  said  the  doc- 
tor, '  so  I  have.'  " 

Mrs.  Prout  \_coughing'\ .  New  line.  "  A  smile 
flashed  across  the  lips  of  Isabel  as  she  took  up  a 

glittering  knife "  \^gives  a  great  so6].     Oh, 

Christine !     I'm  sure  Dr.  Gardner  wrote  it. 

Christine.  Very  well,  madam.  He  wrote  it. 
We  have  at  last  settled  something.  '[Mrs.  Prout 
buries  her  face  in  her  hands.  Christine  looTcs  up, 
and  after  an  instanfs  pause  springs  toward  her."] 
You  poor  dear !     You  arc  perfectly  hysterical  this 


14  THE  STEPMOTHER 

morning.  You  must  go  and  lie  down  for  a  little. 
A  horizontal  posture  is  what  you  need. 

Mrs.  Prout.  Perhaps  you  are  right.  I  will 
leave  you  for  an  hour  \_totters  to  her  feet^.  Take 
down  this  note  for  Dr.  Gardner.  He  may  call  this 
morning.  In  fact,  I  rather  think  he  will.  "  The 
answer  to  the  question  is  '  No  '  " —  capital  N, 

Christine.     Shall  I  sign  it.f* 

Mrs.  Prout.  Yes ;  sign  it  "  C.  P."  And  if  he 
comes,  give  it  him  yourself,  and  say  that  I  can  see 
no  one.  And,  Christine,  would  you  mind  \_cr7/ing 
gentle/  again]  seeing  the  b-b-butler,  and  try  to  rea- 
son him  into  a  sensible  attitude  towards  my  n-n-nov- 
els.  In  my  present  state  of  health  I  couldn't  stand 
any  change.     And  he  is  so  admirable  at  table. 

Christine.  Shall  I  offer  some  compromise  in  our 
next  novel  ?  I  might  inquire  what  is  the  irreducible 
minimum  of  his  demands. 

Mrs.  Prout  [faintly].  Anything,  anything,  if 
he  will  stay. 

Christine  [following  Mrs.  Prout  to  tJie  door,  and 
touching  her  shoulder  caressingly].  Try  to  sleep. 
[Exit  Mrs.  Prout.  Christine  whistles  in  a  low 
tone  as  she  returns  meditatively  to  her  seat.] 

Christine  [looking  at  notebook].  "  Isabel  took 
up  a  glittering  knife,"  did  she  ?  "  The  answer  to 
the  question  is  '  No,'  "  with  a  capital  A^.  "  C.  P." 
sounds  like  Carter  Paterson.  Now,  as  I  have  noth- 
ing to  do,  I  think  I  will  devote  the  morning  to  an 
article  on  "  Hysteria  in  Lady  Novelists."     Um ! 


THE  STEPMOTHER  15 

Ah !  "  The  answer  to  the  question  is  *  No  '  "  — 
capital  A^.  What  question?  Can  it  be  that  the 
lily-wliite  hand  of  the  author  of  Heart  Ache 
has  .  .  .  [hnocl:^.  Come  in.  [Enter  Dr. 
Gardner. '\ 

Gardner.     Oh,  good  morning,  Miss  Feversham. 

Christine.  Good  morning,  Dr.  Gardner.  You 
seem  surprised  to  see  me  here.  Yet  I  am  to  be 
found  in  this  chair  daily  at  this  hour. 

Gardner.  Not  at  all,  not  at  all.  I  assure  you 
I  fully  expected  to  find  both  you  and  the  chair.  I 
also  expected  to  find  Mrs.  Prout. 

Christine.  Are  you  capable  of  interrupting  our 
literary  labours.'*  We  do  not  receive  callers  so 
early.  Dr.  Gardner.  Which  reminds  tliat  I  have 
several  times  remarked  that  this  study  ought  not 
to  have  a  door  opening  Into  the  corridor. 

Gardner.  As  for  that,  may  I  venture  to  offer 
the  excuse  that  I  had  an  appointment  with  Mrs. 
Prout? 

Christine.  At  what  hour?  She  never  makes 
appointments  before  noon. 

Gardner.     I  believe  she  did  say  twelve  o'clock. 

Christine  [looling  at  her  xeatch'].  And  it  Is 
now  twenty-five  minutes  to  ten.  Punctuality  Is  a 
virtue.  You  may  be  said  to  have  raised  it  to  the 
(dignity  of  a  fine  art. 

Gardner.  I  will  wait  [sits  down^.  I  trust  I 
ido  not  interrupt? 

Christine.     Yes,  Doctor,   I  regret  to   say  that 


16  THE  STEPMOTHER 

you  do.  I  was  about  to  commence  the  composition 
of  an  article. 

Gardner.     Upon  what? 

Christ'mc.  Upon  "  Hysteria  in  Lady  Novelists." 
It  is  ray  specialty. 

Gardner.  Surely  lady  novelists  are  not  hyster- 
ical.'^ 

Christine.  The  increase  of  hysteria  among  that 
class  of  persons  is  one  of  the  saddest  features  of 
the  age. 

Gardner.  Dear  me!  [enthusiastic ally'\.  But  I 
can  tell  you  the  name  of  one  lady  novelist  who  isn't 
hysterical  —  and  that,  perhaps,  the  greatest  name 
of  all  —  Mrs.  Prout. 

Christine.  Of  course  not,  of  course  not,  Doc- 
tor. Nevertheless,  Mrs.  Prout  is  somewhat  indis- 
posed this  morning. 

Gardner.  Cora  —  ill !  What  is  it  ?  Nothing 
serious  ? 

Christine.  Rest  assured.  The  merest  slight  in- 
disposition. Just  sufficient  to  delay  us  an  hour  or 
two  with  our  work.  Nothing  more.  Nerves,  you 
know.  The  Imagination  of  a  great  artist.  Dr. 
Gardner,  is  often  too  active,  too  stressful,  for  the 
frail  physical  organism. 

Gardner.  Ah !  You  regard  Mrs.  Prout  as  a 
great  artist? 

Christine.  Doctor  —  even  to  ask  such  a  ques- 
tion    .     .     .!     Do  not  you? 


THE  STErMOTIIER  17 

Gardner,  I?  To  me  slie  is  unique.  I  say, 
Miss  Feversham,  "were  jou  ever  in  love? 

Christine.     In  love?     I  have  had  preferences. 

Gardner.     Among  men? 

Christine.  No ;  among  boys.  Recollect  I  am 
only  twenty,  though  singularly  precocious  in 
shrewdness  and  calm  judgment. 

Gardner.  Twenty?  You  amaze  me.  Miss 
Feversham.  I  have  often  been  struck  by  your 
common  sense  and  knowledge  of  the  world.  They 
would  do  credit  to  a  woman  of  fifty. 

Christine.  I  am  glad  to  notice  that  you  do  not 
stoop  to  offer  me  vulgar  compliments  about  my 
face. 

Gardner.  I  am  incapable  of  such  conduct.  I 
esteem  your  mental  qualities  too  highly.  And  so 
you  have  had  your  preferences  among  boys? 

Christine.  Yes,  I  like  to  catch  them  from 
eighteen  to  twenty.  They  are  so  sweet  and  fresh 
then,  like  new  milk.  The  employe  of  the  Express 
Dairy  Company  who  leaves  me  my  half-pint  at  my 
lodgings  each  morning  is  a  perfectly  lovely  dear. 
I  adore  him. 

Gardner.  He  is  one  of  your  preferences, 
then? 

Christine.  A  preference  among  milkmen,  of 
whom,  as  I  change  my  lodgings  frequently,  I  have 
known  many.  Then  there  is  the  postman  —  not  a 
day  more  than  eighteen,  I  am  sure,  tliough  that  is 


18  THE  STEPMOTHER 

contrary  to  the  regulations  of  St.  Martin's-le- 
Grand.  Dr.  Gardner,  you  sJiould  see  my  postman. 
When  lie  brings  them  I  can  receive  even  rejected 
articles  with  equanimity. 

Gardner.  I  should  be  channed  to  see  him.  But 
tell  me,  Miss  Feversham,  have  you  had  no  serious 
preferences  ? 

Christine.  You  seem  interested  in  this  question 
of  preferences. 

Gardner.     I  am. 

Christine.  Doctor,  I  will  open  my  heart  to  you. 
It  Is  conceivable  you  may  be  of  use  to  me.  You 
are  on  friendly  terms  with  Adrian,  and  doubtless 
you  know  the  history  of  his  exit  from  this  house. 
[Gardner  nods,  with  a  smile.^  Doctor,  he  and  I 
are  passionately  attached  to  each  other.  Our  ages 
are  precisely  alike.  It  is  a  beautiful  idyll,  or 
rather  it  would  be,  if  dear  Mrs.  Prout  did  not  try 
to  transform  it  into  a  tragedy.  She  has  not  only 
turned  the  darling  boy  out,  but  she  has  absolutely 
forbidden  him  the  house. 

Gardner.     Doubtless  she  had  her  reasons. 

Christine.  Oh,  I'm  sure  she  had.  Only,  you 
see,  her  reasons  aren't  ours.  Of  course  we  could 
marry  at  once  If  we  chose.  I  could  easily  keep 
Adrian.  I  do  not,  however,  wish  to  inconvenience 
dear  Mrs.  Prout.  It  is  a  mistake  to  quarrel  with 
the  rich  relations  of  one's  future  husband.  But  I 
was  thinking  that  perhaps  you,  Doctor,  might 
persuade  dear  Mrs.  Prout  that  my  marriage  to 


THE  STEPMOTHER  19 

Adrian  need  not  necessarily  interfere  with  the  per- 
formance of  my  duties  as  her  secretary. 

Gardner.  Anything  that  I  can  do,  Miss  Fever- 
sham,  you  may  rely  on  me  doing. 

Christina.     You  are  a  dear. 

Gardner.  But  why  should  you  imagine  that  I 
have  any  influence  with  Mrs.  Prout? 

Christine.  I  do  not  imagine ;  I  know.  It  is  my 
unerring  insight  over  again,  my  faultless  obsen^a- 
tion.  Doctor,  you  did  not  begin  to  question  me 
about  love  because  you  were  interested  in  my  love 
affairs,  but  because  you  were  interested  in  your 
own,  and  couldn't  keep  off  the  subject.  I  read  you 
like  a  book.  You  love  Mrs.  Prout,  my  dear  Doc- 
tor. Therefore  you  have  influence  over  her. 
No  woman  is  uninfluenced  by  the  man  wlio  loves 
her. 

Gardner  [laughing  hetween  self-satisfaction  and 
self-consciousnessl.  You  have  noticed  that  I  ad- 
mire Mrs.  Prout.''  It  appears  that  nothing  escapes 
you. 

Christine.  That  is  a  trifle.  The  butler  has  no- 
ticed it. 

Gardner.     The  butler! 

Christine.     The  butler. 

Gardner  [with  abandon^.  Let  him.  Let  the 
whole  world  notice.  Miss  Feversham,  be  it  known 
that  I  love  INIrs.  Prout  with  passionate  adoration. 
Before  the  day  is  out  I  shall  either  be  her  affianced 
bridegroom  —  or  I  shall  be  a  dead  man. 


20  THE  STEPMOTHER 

Christine  [leaning  forward;  in  a  low,  tense 
voice^.     You  proposed  to  her  last  night? 

Gardner.     I  did. 

Christine.  And  you  were  to  come  for  the  an- 
swer this  morning? 

Gardner.  Yes.  Can  you  not  guess  that  I  am 
eager  —  excited?  Can  you  not  pardon  me  for 
thinking  it  is  noon  at  twenty-five  minutes  to  ten? 
Ah,  Miss  Fevcrsham,  if  Adrian  adores  you  with 
one-tenth  of  the  fire  with  which  I  adore  Mrs. 
Prout 

Christine.  Stop,  Doctor.  I  do  not  wish  to  be 
a  burnt  sacrifice.  Now  let  me  ask  you  a  question. 
You  have  seen  that  attack  on  Mrs.  Prout,  entitled 
"  Medicine  in  Fiction,"  in  this  month's  Forum. 
Do  you  know  the  author  of  it? 

Gardner.  I  don't.  Has  it  disturbed  Mrs. 
Prout? 

Christine.  It  has.  Did  she  not  mention  It  to 
you? 

Gardner.  Not  a  word.  If  I  did  know  the  au- 
thor of  it,  if  I  ever  do  know  the  author  of  it,  I 
will  tear  him  [fiercely^  limb  from  limb. 

Christine.  I  trust  you  Avill  chloroform  him  first. 
It  will  be  hon'id  of  you  if  you  don't. 

Gardner.  I  absolutely  decline  to  chloroform 
him  first. 

Christine.     You  must. 

Gardner.     I  won't. 

Christina.     Never  mind.     Perhaps  you  will  be 


THE  STEPMOTHER  21 

dead.  Remember  that  you  have  promised  to  kill 
yourself  to-daj  on  a  certain  contingency. 
Should  you  really  do  it.?  Should  you  really  put 
an  end  to  your  life  if  JNIrs.  Prout  gave  you  a  re- 
fusal ? 

Gardner.  I  swear  it.  Existence  would  be 
valueless  to  me. 

Christine.  By  the  way,  INIrs.  Prout  told  me  that 
if  you  called  I  Avas  to  say  that  she  could  sec  no  one. 

Gardner.  See  no  one!  But  she  prom- 
ised    .     . 

Christine.     However,  she  left  a  note. 

Gardner  \_starting  up'].  Give  it  me  instantly. 
Why  didn't  you  give  it  me  before? 

Christine.  I  had  no  opportunity.  Besides,  I 
haven't  transcribed  it  yet.     It  was  dictated. 

Gardner.     Dictated?     Are  you  snxc^ 

Christine  [^seriously].  Oh,  yes,  she  dictates 
everything. 

Gardner.  Well,  well,  read  it  to  me,  read  it  to 
me.     Quick,  I  say. 

Christine  [turning  over  leaves  rapidly].  Here 
it  is.     Are  you  listening.'' 

Gardner.     Great  Heaven ! 

Christine  [reads  from  her  shorthand  note], 
"  The  answer  to  your  question  is " 

Gardner.     Go  on. 

Christine  [dratclng  her  breath  f^rst].  "Yes. — 
C.  P."     There !     I've  saved  your  life  for  you. 

Gardner.     You  have  Indeed,  my  dear  girl.     But 


22  THE  STEPMOTHER 

I  must   see   her.     I   must  see   my   beloved   Cora. 

Christine  [^taking  his  hand^.  Accept  my  advice, 
Doctor  —  the  advice  of  a  simple,  artless  girl.  Do 
not  attempt  to  see  her  to-day.  There  are  seasons 
of  emotion  when  a  woman  [^stops^.  .  .  .  Go 
downstairs  and  write  to  her,  and  then  give  the  let- 
ter to  me.      l^Pats  hirni  on  the  bacJt.] 

Gardner.  I  will,  by  Jove.  Miss  Feversham, 
you're  a  good  sort.  And  as  you've  told  me  some- 
thing, I'll  tell  you  something.  Adrian  is  going 
to  storm  the  castle  to-day. 

Christine.    Adrian !    \^A  knock.    Enter  Adrian.'\ 

Adrian.     Since  you  command  it,  I  enter. 

Gardner.  Let  me  pass,  bold  youth.  \^Exit  Dr. 
Gardner  hurriedly.^ 

Adrian  [overcome  hy  Gardner'' s  haste'\.  Why 
this  avalanche.'^  Has  something  happened  sud- 
denly .? 

Christine.  Several  things  have  happened  sud- 
denly, Adrian,  and  several  more  will  probably  hap- 
pen when  your  mamma  discovers  that  you  are  defy- 
ing her  orders  in  this  audacious  manner.  Why 
are  you  here.''      \^Kisses  7iiw.]      You  perfect  duck! 

Adrian  \^gravelif\.  I  am  not  here.  Miss  Fever- 
sham  

Christine.  "  Miss  Feversham  "  —  and  my  kiss 
still  warm  on  his  lips ! 

Adrian.  I  repeat.  Miss  Feversham,  that  I  am 
not  here.  This  [^pointing  to  hiniself'\  is  not  I.  It 
is  merely  a  rather  smart  member  of  the  staff  of  the 


THE  STEPMOTHER  23 

Daily  Snail,  come  to  interview  Cora  Prout,  the 
celebrated  novelist. 

Christine.  And  I  have  kissed  a  Snail  reporter. 
Ugh! 

Adrian.     Impetuosity  has  ruined  many  women. 

Christine.  It  is  a  morning  of  calamities  \_as~ 
suming  the  secretarial  pose^ .     Your  card,  please. 

Adrian  [handing  card^.     With  pleasure. 

Christine  [^takirig  card  by  the  extreme  corner, 
perusing  it  with  disdain,  and  then  dropping  it  on 
the  floorl .  We  never  see  interviewers  in  the  morn- 
ing. 

Adrian.     Then  I  will  call  this  afternoon. 

Christine.     You  must  write  for  an  appointment. 

Adrian.     Oh !  I'll  take  my  chances,  thanks. 

Christine.  We  never  give  them:  it  is  our  rule. 
We  have  to  be  very  particular.  The  fact  is,  we 
hate  being  interviewed,  and  we  only  submit  to  the 
process  out  of  a  respectful  regard  for  tlie  great 
and  enhghtencd  public.  Any  sort  of  notoriety, 
any  suggestion  of  self-advertisement,  is  distaste- 
ful to  us.  What  do  you  wish  to  interview  us 
about.'*  If  it's  the  new  novel,  we  arc  absolutely 
mum.     Accept  that  from  me. 

Adrian.  It  isn't  the  new  novel.  The  Snail 
wishes  to  know  whether  Mrs.  Prout  feels  inclined 
to  make  any  statement  in  reply  to  that  article, 
"'Medicine  in  Fiction,"  in  the  Forum. 

Christine.  Oh,  Adrian,  do  you  know  anything 
about  that  article.-* 


24  THE  STEPMOTHER 

Adrian.     Rather!     I  know  all  about  it. 

Christine.  You  treasure!  You  invaluable  dar- 
ling !  I  will  marry  you  to-morrow  morning  by 
special  licence 

Adrian.  Recollect,  it  is  a  Snail  reporter  whom 
you  are  addressing.      Suppose  I  were  to  print  that ! 

Christine.  Just  so.  You  are  prudence  itself, 
while  I,  for  the  moment,  happen  to  be  a  little  —  a 
little  abnormal.  I  saved  a  man's  life  this  morn- 
ing, and  it  is  apt  to  upset  one's  nerves.  It  is  a 
dreadful  thing  to  do  —  to  save  a  man's  life.  And 
the  consequences  will  be  simply  frightful  for  me 
[^buries  her  face  in  her  hands^. 

Adrian.  Christine  \_taJcing  her  hands'\,  what 
are  you  raving  about.?     You  are  not  yourself. 

Christine.  I  wish  I  wasn't  \looJdng  up  with 
forced  calni].  Adrian,  there  is  a  possibility  of 
your  being  able  to  save  me  from  the  results  of  my 
horrible  act,  if  only  you  will  tell  me  the  name  of 
the  author  of  that  article  in  the  Forum. 

Adrian  \_tenderl7j^.  Christine,  you  little  know 
what  you  ask.  But  for  you  I  will  do  anything. 
.  .  .  Kiss  me,  my  white  hly.  \^She  kisses 
Am.] 

Christine  [whispersl.  Tell  me.  \^He  folds  her 
up  in  his  arms.^ 

Enter  Mrs.  Trout  excitedly. 

Mrs.  Trout  [as  she  enters^.     Christine,  that  ap- 
palling butler  has  actually  left  the  house     . 
[^observing  group'l.     Heavens! 


THE  STEP.AIOTIIER  25 

Christine  {^qulctly  disengaging  herself^.  You 
seem  a  little  better,  I\Irs.  Trout.  A  persou  to  inter- 
view jou  from  the  Daily  Snail  \^pointing  to 
Adrian^. 

Mrs.  Prout.     Adrian ! 

Adrian.     Yes,  Mamma. 

Mrs.  Prout  [^opening  her  lips  to  speak  and  tlicn 
closing  them^.     Sit  down. 

Adrian.     Certainl^^,  Mamma  [.sj^s]. 

Mrs.  Prout.     How  dare  jou  come  here.'' 

Adrian.  I  don't  know  how,  INIamma  \^picks  up 
his  card  from  the  floor  and  hands  it  to  her;  then 
resumes  his  seat]. 

Mrs.  Prout  [glancing  at  card].     Pah! 

Christine.  That's  just  what  I  told  the  person, 
]Mrs.  Prout.  [il/r*.  Prout  hums  her  up  with  a 
glance.] 

Mrs.  Prout.  You  have,  then,  abandoned  your 
medical  studies,  for  wliich  I  had  paid  all  the  fees.'* 

Adrian.  Yes,  Mamma.  You  see,  I  was  obliged 
to  earn  something  at  once.  So  I  took  to  journal- 
ism. I  am  getting  on  quite  nicely.  The  editor 
of  the  Snail  says  that  I  may  review  your  next  book. 

Mrs.  Prout.  Unnatural  stepson,  to  review  in 
cold  blood  the  novel  of  your  own  stepmother !  But 
this  morning  I  am  getting  used  to  misfortunes. 

Adrian.  It  cuts  me  to  the  heart  to  hear  you 
refer  to  any  action  of  mine  as  a  misfortune  for 
you.  Perhaps  you  would  prefer  that  I  should  at 
once  relieve  you  of  my  presence.'' 


26  THE  STEPMOTHER 

Mrs.  Prout.  Decidedly,  yes  —  that  is,  if  Chris- 
tine thinks  she  can  do  without  the  fifth  act  of  that 
caress  which  I  inteiTupted. 

Christine.  The  curtain  was  akeady  falHng, 
madam. 

Mrs.  Prout.  Very  well.  [To  Adrian.^  Good- 
day. 

Adrian.  As  a  stepson  I  retire.  As  the  "  spe- 
cial "  of  the  Daily  Snail  I  must  insist  on  remain- 
ing. A  "  special  "  of  the  Daily  Snail  is  incapable 
of  being  snubbed.  He  knows  what  he  wants,  and 
he  gets  it,  or  he  ceases  to  be  a  "  special "  of  the 
Daily  Snail. 

Mrs.  Prout.  I  esteem  the  press,  and  though  I 
should  prefer  an  existence  of  absolute  privacy,  I 
never  refuse  its  demands.  I  sacrifice  myself  to  my 
public,  freely  acknowledging  that  a  great  artist 
has  no  exclusive  right  to  the  details  of  his  own 
daily  life.  A  great  artist  belongs  to  the  world. 
What  is  it  you  want,  Mr.  Snail? 

Adrian.  I  want  to  know  whether  you  care  to 
say  anything  in  reply  to  that  article  on  "  Medicine 
in  Fiction  "  in  the  Forum. 

Mrs.  Prout  [sinking  hacJc  in  despair"].  That 
article  again!  [sitting  up].  Tell  me  —  do  you 
know  the  author,? 

Adrian.     I  do. 

Mrs.  Prout.     His  name ! 

Adrian.     He  is  a  friend  of  mine. 

Mrs.  Prout.     His  name ! 


THE  STErMOTHER  27 

Adrian.  I  am  informed  that  in  writing  it  he 
was  actuated  by  the  liighcst  motives.  His  desire 
was  not  onlj^  to  make  a  httle  money,  but  to  revenge 
himself  against  a  person  who  had  deeply  injured 
him.  He  didn't  know  much  about  medicine,  being 
only  a  student,  and  probably  the  larger  part  of  his 
arguments  could  not  be  sustained,  but  he  knew 
enough  to  make  a  show,  and  he  made  it. 

Mrs.  Prouf.     His  name !     I  insist. 

Adrian.  Adrian  Spout  or  Prout  —  I  have  a 
poor  memory.     .     .     . 

Mrs.  Prout.     Is  it  possible? 

Christine.     Monster ! 

Adrian.  Need  I  defend  my  self ,  Mamma  ?  Con- 
sider what  you  had  done  to  me.  You  had  devas- 
tated my  young  heart,  which  was  just  unfolding 
to  its  first  passion.  You  had  blighted  the  spring- 
time of  the  exquisite  creature  [looJcing  at  Chris- 
tine, "who  is  moved  hy  the  feeling  in  his  ton€s'\  — 
the  exquisite  creature  who  was  dearer  to  me  than 
all  the  world.  In  place  of  the  luxury  of  my  late 
father's  house  you  offered  me  —  the  street.    .    .    . 

Christine.     [Yes     .     .     .     and  Gower  Street. 

Adrian.  You,  who  should  have  gently  fostered 
and  encouraged  the  ifrail  buds  of  my  energy  and 
intelligence  —  you  cast  me  forth     . 

Christine.     Cast  them  forth. 

Adrian.  Cast  them  forth,  untimely  plucked,  to 
wither,  and  perhaps  die,  in  the  deserts  of  a  great 
city.     And  for  what.''     For  what? 


28  THE  STEPMOTHER 

Christine.  Merely  lest  she  should  be  deprived 
of  ?wz/  poor  services.  Ah!  Mrs.  Prout,  can  you 
wonder  that  Mr.  Adrian  should  actively  resent 
such  conduct  —  you  with  your  marvellous  knowl- 
edge of  human  nature.? 

Mrs.  Prout.     Adrian,  did  you  really  write  It? 

Adrian.  Why,  of  course.  You  seem  rather 
pleased  than  otherwise.  Mamma. 

Mrs.  Prout  \^after  cogitating'\ .  Ah !  You 
didn't  write  it,  really.  You  are  just  boasting.  It 
is  a  plot,  a  plot ! 

Adrian.  I  can  prove  that  I  wrote  it,  since  you 
impugn  my  veracity. 

Mrs.  Prout.     How  can  you  prove  It  ? 

Adrian.  By  producing  the  cheque  which  I  re- 
ceived from  the  Forum  this  very  morning. 

Mrs.  Prout.     Produce  it,  and  I  will  forgive  all. 

Adrian  l^with  a  sign  to  Christine  that  he  entirely 
fails  to  comprehend  the  situation'^.  I  fly.  It  is 
in  my  humble  attic,  round  the  comer.  Back  in 
two  minutes.      \_Eocit  Adrian.^ 

Mrs.  Prout.     Christine,  did  he  really  write  It? 

Christine.  Can  you  doubt  his  word?  Was  it 
for  lying  that  you  ejected  the  poor  youth  from  this 
residence  ? 

Mrs.  Prout.  Ah!  If  he  did!  [^smiles.^  Of 
course  Dr.  Gardner  has  not  called? 

Christine.  Yes,  he  was  in  about  twenty  minutes 
ago. 


THE  STEriAIOTIIER  29 

Mrs.  Front  [^agon'ised].  Did  you  give  him  my 
note  ? 

Christine.     No. 

Mrs.  Prout.     Thank  Heaven  ! 

Christine.  I  had  not  copied  it  out,  so  I  read  it 
to  him. 

Mrs.  Prout.     You  read  it  to  him? 

Christine.  Yes ;  that  seemed  the  obvious  thing 
to  do. 

Mrs.  Prout  [in  black  despair^.  All  is  over 
[sinks  back^. 

Enter  Dr.  Gardner  hastily. 

Christine.     Again  ? 

Gardner  [excited~\.  I  was  looking  out  of  the 
window  of  my  flat  when  I  saw  Adrian  tear  along 
the  street.  I  said  to  myself,  "  A  man,  even  a  re- 
porter, only  runs  like  that  when  a  doctor  is  re- 
quired, and  urgently  required.  Some  one  is  ill, 
perhaps  my  darling  Cora."     So  I  flew  upstairs. 

Mrs.  Prout  [with  a  shriek'].     Dr.  Gardner! 

Gardner.  You  are  indeed  ill,  my  beloved  [ap- 
proaching her].     What  is  the  matter? 

Mrs.  Prout  [zvaving  him  off].  It  is  nothing, 
Doctor.  Could  you  get  me  some  salts?  I  have 
mislaid  mine  [sighs]. 

Gardner.  Salts!  In  an  instant.  [Exit  Dr. 
Gardner.] 

Mrs.  Prout.  Christine,  3'ou  said  you  read  my 
note  to  Dr.  Gardner. 


30  THE  STEPMOTHER 

Christine.     Yes,  Mrs.  Prout. 

Mrs.  Prout.  His  behaviour  is  singular  in  the 
extreme.     He    seems    positively    overjoyed,   while 

the  freedom  of  his  endearing  epithets What 

were  the  precise  terms  I  used?     Read  me  the  note. 

Christine.  Yes,  Mrs.  Prout  [^reads  demur ely~\. 
"  The  answer  to  your  question  is  '  Yes,'  "  —  with  a 
capital  N. 

Mrs.  Prout.     "  Yes  "  with  a  capital  N? 

Christine  [calmly'\.  I  mean  with  a  capital  F. 
[Christine  and  Mrs.  Prout  look  steadUy  at  each 
other.  Then  they  both  smile.  Enter  Dr.  Gard- 
ner.![ 

Gardner  [handing  the  salts'].  You  are  sure 
you  are  not  ill? 

Mrs.  Prout  [smiling  at  him  radiantly].  I  am 
convinced  of  it.  Christine,  will  3'ou  kindly  reach 
me  down  the  dictionary  from  that  shelf?  [While 
Christine^s  back  is  turned  Dr.  Gardner  gives,  and 
Mrs.  Prout  returns,  a  passionate  kiss]. 

Christine  [handing  dictionary].  Here  it  is, 
Mrs.  Prout. 

Mrs.  Prout  [after  consulting  it].  I  tliougllt  I 
could  not  be  mistaken.  Christine,  you  have  ren- 
dered me  a  service  [regarding  her  affectionately] 
—  a  service  for  which  I  shall  not  forget  to  express 
my  gratitude ;  but  I  am  obliged  to  dismiss  you  in- 
stantly from  my  service. 

Christine.     Dismiss  me,  madam? 


THE  STErMOTHER  31 

Gardner.     Cora,  can  you  be  so  cruel? 

Mrs,  Prout.  Alas,  yes !  She  has  sinned  tlie 
secretarial  sin  which  is  beyond  forgiveness.  She 
has  misspelt. 

Gardner.     Impossible ! 

Mrs.  Frout.     It  is  too  true. 

Gardner.     Tell  me  the  sad  details. 

Mrs.  Frout.  She  has  been  guilty  of  spelling 
"  No  »  with  a  "  Y." 

Gardner.  Dear  me !  And  a  word  of  one  sylla- 
ble, too !  INIIss  Feversham,  I  should  not  have 
thought  it  of  you.      [Enter  Adrian.l^ 

Adrian  [«s  he  hands  a  cheque  for  Mrs.  Froufs 
inspection^.     Here  again,  Doctor.'' 

Gardner.     Yes,  and  to  stay. 

Mrs.  Frout.  Adrian,  the  Doctor  and  I  are  en- 
gaged to  be  married.  And  talking  of  marriage, 
you  observe  that  girl  there  in  the  corner.  Take 
her  and  marry  her  at  the  earliest  convenient  mo- 
ment.    She  is  no  longer  my  secretary. 

Adrian.     What!     You  consent? 

Mrs.  Frout.     I  consent. 

Adrian.     And  you  pardon  my  article? 

Mrs.  Frout.  No,  my  dear  Adrian,  I  ignore  it. 
Here,  take  your  ill-gotten  gains  [returning 
cheque^.  They  will  bring  you  no  good.  And 
since  they  will  bring  you  no  good,  I  have  decided 
to  allow  you  the  sum  of  five  hundred  pounds  a  year. 
You  must  have  something. 


32  THE  STEPMOTHER 

Adrian.     Stepmother! 

Christine  [^advancing  to  taJce  Mrs.  ProuVs 
hand,] .     Stepmother-in-law ! 

Gardner.     Cora,  you  are  an  angel. 

Mrs.  Prout.  J\Ierely  an  artist,  my  clear  Tom, 
merely  an  artist.  I  have  the  dramatic  sense  — 
that  is  all. 

Adrian.  Your  sense  is  more  than  dramatic,  it  is 
common ;  it  is  even  horse.  What  about  the  Snail 
"  special,"  mummy? 

3Irs.  Prout.  My  attitude  is  one  of  strict 
silence. 

Adrian.     But  I  must  go  away  with  something. 

Mrs.  Prout.  Strict  silence.  The  attack  is  be- 
neath my  notice. 

Adrian.     But  what  can  I  say? 

Christine.  Say  that  Mrs.  Front's  late  secretary, 
Miss  Feversham,  having  retired  from  her  post,  has 
already  entered  upon  a  career  of  original  literary 
composition.  That  will  be  a  nice  newsy  item, 
won't  it? 

Adrian  [taking  out  notebookl.  Rather!  What 
is  she  at  work  on? 

Christine.     Oh,  well,  I  scarcely 

Gardner.  I  know  — "  Hysteria  in  Lady  Novel- 
ists." 

Mrs.  Prout.     What? 

Gardner  [to  Christin-el.     Didn't  you  tell  me  so? 

Christine.     Of  course  I  didn't.  Doctor.     What 


THE  STEPMOTHER  33 

a  shocking  memory  you  have !  It  is  worse  tlian 
my  spelhng. 

Gardner.     Then  what  did  you  say? 

Christine.  I  said,  "  Generosity  in  Lady  Novel- 
ists." 

\Curtain.l^ 

[1899] 


A  GOOD  WOMAN 
FARCE  IN  ONE  ACT 


CHARACTERS 

James  Brett,  a  Clerk  in  the  War  Office,  33. 
Gerald  O'Mara,  a  Civil  Engineer,  24. 

Rosamund  Fife,  a  Spinster  and  a  Lecturer  on 
Cookery,  28. 


A  GOOD  WOMAN 

Scene. —  Rosamund's  Flat;  the  drawing-room* 
Hie  apartment  is  plainly  furnished.  There 
is  a  screen  in  the  corner  of  the  room  furthest 
from  the  door.  It  is  9  a.  m.  Rosamund  is 
seated  alone  at  a  table.  She  xvears  a  neat 
travelling-dress,  "with  a  plain  straw  hat.  Her 
gloves  lie  on  a  chair.  A  small  portable  desk 
full  of  papers  is  open  before  her.  She  gazes 
straight  in  front  of  Jier,  smiling  vaguely. 
With  a  start  she  recovers  from  her  day- 
dreams, and  rushing  to  the  looking-glass,  in- 
spects her  features  therein.  Then  she  looks 
at  her  watch. 

Rosamund.  Three  hours  yet!  I'm  a  fool 
[with  decision.  She  sits  down  again,  and  idly 
picks  up  a  paper  out  of  the  desk.  The  door 
opens,  unceremoniously  but  quietly,  and  James  en- 
ters. The  two  stare  at  each  other,  James  wearing 
a  conciliatory  smiWl. 

Rosamund.     You  appalling  creature! 

James.  I  couldn't  help  it,  I  simply  couldn't 
help  it. 

Rosamund.     Do    you    know    this    is    the    very 
height  and  summit  of  indelicacy  ? 
39 


40  A  GOOD  WOMAN 

James.     I  was  obliged  to  come. 

Rosamund.     If  I  had  any  relations 

James.     Which  you  haven't. 

Rosamund.     I  say  if  I  had  any  relations 

James.     I  say  which  you  haven't. 

Rosamund.  Never  mind,  it  is  a  safe  rule  for 
unattached  women  always  to  behave  as  if  they  had 
relations,  especially  female  relations,  whether  they 
have  any  or  not.  My  remark  is,  that  if  I  had  any 
relations  they  would  be  absolutely  scandalised  by 
tliis  atrocious  conduct  of  yours. 

James.     What  have  I  done.? 

Rosamund.  Can  you  ask?  Here  are  you,  and 
here  am  I.  We  are  to  be  married  to-day  at  twelve 
o'clock.  The  ceremony  has  not  taken  place,  and 
yet  you  are  found  on  my  premises.  You  must 
surely  be  aware  that  on  the  day  of  the  wedding  the 
parties  —  yes,  the  "  parties,"  that  is  the  word  — 
should  on  no  account  see  each  other  till  they  see 
each  other  in  church. 

James.  But  since  we  are  to  be  married  at  a 
registry  office,  does  the  rule  apply.'' 

Rosamund.     Undoubtedly. 

James.  Then  I  must  apologise.  My  excuse  is 
that  I  am  not  up  in  these  minute  details  of  cir- 
cumspection ;  you  see  I  have  been  married  so  sel- 
dom. 

Rosamund.  Evidently.  [A  'pause,  during 
•which  James  at  last  ventures  to  approach  the  mid- 
dle of  the  room,']     Now  you  must  go  back  home, 


A  GOOD  WOMAN  41 

and    we'll    pretend    we    haven't    seen    each    other. 

James.  Never,  Kosaniund!  That  would  be 
acting  a  lie.  And  I  couldn't  dream  of  getting 
married  with  a  lie  on  my  lips.  It  would  be  so  un- 
usual. No ;  we  have  sinned,  or  rather  I  have 
sinned,  on  this  occasion.  I  will  continue  to  sin  — 
openl}^,  brazenly.  Come  here,  my  dove.  A  bird 
in  the  hand  is  worth  two  under  a  bushel.  \He  as- 
sumes an  attitude  of  entreaty,  and,  leaving  her 
chair,  Rosamund  goes  toxcards  him.  They  ex- 
change an  ardent  l:iss.'\ 

Rosamund  [quietly  submissive^.  I'm  awfully 
busy,  you  know,  Jim. 

James.  I  will  assist  you  in  your  little  duties, 
dearest,   and  then   I  will   accompany   you  to  the 

sacred  cd to  the  registry  office.     Now,  what 

were  you  doing?  [She  sits  dozen,  and  he  puts  a 
chair  for  himself  close  beside  her.^ 

Rosamund.  You  are  singularly  unlike  your- 
self this  morning,  dearest. 

James.  Nerv'ous  tension,  my  angel.  I  should 
have  deemed  it  impossible  that  an  employe  of  the 
War  Office  could  experience  the  marvellous  and 
exquisite  sensations  now  agitating  my  heart. 
But  tell  me,  what  are  you  doing  with  these 
papers  ? 

Rosamund.  Well,  I  was  just  going  to  look 
through  them  and  see  if  they  contained  anything 
t)f  a  remarkable  or  valuable  nature.  You  see,  I 
hadn't  anything  to  occupy  myself  with. 


4.2  A  GOOD  WOMAN 

Jamfies.  Was  'oo  bored,  waiting  for  the  timey- 
pimey  to  come? 

Rosamund  \limids  caressing'\.  'Iss,  little  pet 
was  bored,  she  was.  Was  Mr.  Pet  lonely  this 
morning?  Couldn't  he  keep  away  from  his  little 
cooky-lecturer?  He  should  see  his  little  cooky- 
lecturer. 

James.  And  that  reminds  me,  hadn't  we  better 
lunch  in  the  train  instead  of  at  Willis's?  That 
will  give  us  more  time? 

Rosamund.  Horrid  greedy  piggywiggy  !  Per- 
haps he  will  be  satisfied  if  Mrs.  Pet  agrees  to  lunch 
both  at  Willis's  and  in  the  train? 

James.  Yes.  Only  piggywiggy  doesn't  want 
to  trespass  on  Mrs.  Pet's  good  nature.  Let  pig- 
gywiggy look  at  the  papers.  \^He  takes  up  a  pa- 
per from  the  deslc.l^ 

Rosamund  [a  little  seriously'].  No,  Jimmy.  I 
don't  think  we'll  go  through  them.  Perhaps  it 
wouldn't  be  wise.  Just  let's  destroy  them. 
\Takes  paper  from  his  hand  and  drops  it  in  desk.~\ 

James  ^sternly].  When  you  have  been  the  wife 
of  a  War  Office  clerk  for  a  week  you  will  know 
that  papers  ought  never  to  be  destroyed.  Now  I 
come  to  think,  it  is  not  only  my  right  but  my  duty 

to  examine  this  secret  dossier.     Who  knows 

[Talces  up  at  random  another  document,  which 
proves  to  he  a  postcard.  Reads.']  "  Shall  come 
to-morrow  night.     Thine,  Gerald." 

Rosamund  {^after  a  startled  shriek  of  consterna- 


A  GOOD  WOMAN  43 

tion^.  There!  There!  You've  done  it,  first 
time  I      [^Shc  heg'ms  to  think,  'rnith  knitted  hroxos.^ 

James.  Does  this  higWy  suspicious  postcard 
point  to  some  —  some  episode  in  your  past  of 
which  you  have  deemed  it  advisahle  to  keep  me  in 
ignorance?  If  so,  I  seek  not  to  inquire.  I  for- 
give you  —  I  take  yow,  Rosamund,  as  you  are! 

Rosamund  [reflective,  not  heeding  his  remark'\. 
I  had  absolutely  forgotten  the  whole  affair,  abso- 
lutely. l^Smiles  a  little.  Aside.'\  Suppose  he 
should  come!  \_To  James.'\  Jim,  I  think  I  had 
better  tell  you  all  about  Gerald.  It  will  interest 
you.  Besides,  there  is  no  knowing  what  may  hap- 
pen. 

Jaiines.  As  I  have  said,  I  seek  not  to  inquire. 
\Stif^y.'\  Nor  do  I  imagine  that  this  matter, 
probably  some  childish  entanglement,  would  inter- 
est me. 

Rosamund.  Oh,  wouldn't  it !  Jim,  don't  be 
absurd.  You  know  perfectly  well  you  are  dying 
to  hear. 

James.  Very  well,  save  my  life,  then,  at  the 
least  expense  of  words.  To  begin  with,  who  is 
this  Gerald  —  "  tliinc,"  thine  own  Gerald.? 

Rosamund.  Don't  you  remember  Gerald 
O'Mara  ?  You  met  him  at  the  Stokes's,  I  feel  sure. 
You  know  —  the  young  engineer. 

James.     Oh!     TJmt  ass! 

Rosamund.  He  isn't  an  ass.  He's  a  very  nice 
boy. 


44*  A  GOOD  WOMAN 

James.  For  the  sake  of  argument  and  dispatch, 
agreed !  Went  out  to  C3'prus  or  somewhere,  didn't 
he,  to  build  a  bridge,  or  make  a  dock,  or  dig  a  well, 
or  something  of  that  kind? 

Rosamund  \nodd'mg'\.  Now  listen,  I'll  tell  you 
all  about  it.  [Settles  herself  for  a  long  narra- 
tion.'] Four  years  ago  poor,  dear  Gerald  was 
madly  in  love  with  me.  He  was  twenty  and  I  was 
twenty-four.  Keep  calm  —  I  felt  like  his  aunt. 
Don't  forget  I  was  awfully  pretty  in  those  days. 
Well,  he  was  so  tremendously  in  love  that  In  order 
to  keep  him  from  destroying  himself  —  of  course, 
I  knew  he  was  going  out  to  Cyprus  —  I  sort  of 
pretended  to  be  sympathetic.  I  simply  liad  to ; 
Irishmen  are  so  passionate.  And  he  was  very  nice. 
And  I  barely  knew  you  then.  Well,  the  time  ap- 
proached for  him  to  leave  for  Cyprus,  and  two 
days  before  the  ship  sailed  he  sent  me  that  very 
postcard  that  by  pure  chance  you  picked  up. 

James.     He  should  have  written  a  letter. 

Rosamund.  Ah !  I  expect  he  couldn't  wait. 
He  was  so  impulsive.  Well,  on  the  night  before 
he  left  England  he  came  here  and  proposed  to  me. 
I  remember  I  was  awfully  tired  and  queer.  I  had 
been  giving  a  lecture  in  the  afternoon  on  "  How 
to  Pickle  Pork,"  and  the  practical  demonstration 
had  been  rather  smelly.  However,  the  proposal 
braced  me  up.  It  was  the  first  I  had  had  —  that 
year.  Well,  I  was  so  sorry  for  him  that  I  couldn't 
say  "  No  "  outright.     It  Avould  have  been  too  bru- 


A  GOOD  WOJMAN  45 

tal.  He  might  have  killed  himself  on  the  spot,  and 
spoilt  this  carpet,  which,  by  the  way,  was  new  then. 
So  I  said,  "  Look  here,  Gerald " 

James.     You  called  him  "  Gerald  "  ? 

Rosamund.  Rather!  "  Look  here,  Gerald,"  I 
said ;  "  j^ou  are  going  to  Cyprus  for  four  years. 
If  your  feeling  towards  me  is  what  you  think  it 
is,  come  back  to  me  at  the  end  of  those  four  years, 
and  I  will  then  give  you  an  answer."  Of  course  I 
felt  absolutely  sure  that  in  the  intervening  period 
he  would  fall  in  and  out  of  love  half  a  dozen  times 
at  least. 

James.  Of  course,  half  a  dozen  times  at  least; 
probably  seven.     What  did  he  say  in  reply? 

Rosamund.  He  agreed  with  all  the  seriousness 
in  the  world.  "  On  this  day  four  years  hence,"  he 
said,  standing  just  there  [pointing'],  "  I  will  re- 
turn for  your  answer.  And  in  the  meantime  I  will 
live  only  for  you."  That  was  what  he  said  —  his 
very  words. 

James.  And  a  most  touching  speech,  too  !  And 
then? 

Rosamund.  We  shook  hands,  and  he  tore  him- 
self away,  stifling  a  sob.  Don't  forget,  he  was  a 
boy. 

James.     Have  the  four  years  expired? 

Rosamund.  "What  is  the  date  of  tliat  postcard? 
Let  me  see  it.  [^Snatches  it,  and  smiles  at  the 
handxaiting  'pensively.^  July  4th  —  four  years 
ago. 


46  A  GOOD  WOMAN 

James.  Then  it's  over.  He's  not  /Coming. 
To-day  is  July  5th. 

liosarmind.  But  yesterday  was  Sunday.  He 
wouldn't  come  on  Sunday.  He  was  always  very 
particular  and  nice. 

James.  Do  you  mean  to  imply  that  you  think 
he  will  come  to-day  and  demand  from  you  an 
affirmative?  A  moment  ago  you  gave  me  to  un- 
derstand that  in  your  opinion  he  would  have  —  er 
—  other  affairs  to  attend  to. 

Rosamund.  Yes.  I  did  think  so  at  the  time. 
But  now  —  now  I  have  a  kind  of  idea  that  he  may 
come,  that  after  all  he  may  have  remained  faith- 
ful. You  know  I  was  maddeningly  pretty  then, 
and  he  had  my  photograph. 

James.     Tell  me,  have  you  corresponded? 

Rosamund.     No,  I  expressly  forbade  it. 

James.     Ah  I 

Rosamund.  But  still,  I  have  a  premonition  he 
may  come. 

James  [^assuming  a  pugnacious  posel^.  If  he 
does,  I  will  attend  to  him. 

Rosamund.  Gerald  was  a  terrible  fighter.  \^A 
resounding  knock  is  heard  at  the  door.  Both  start 
violently,  and  look  at  each  other  in  silence.  Rosa- 
m.und  goes  to  the  door  and  opens  it.'\ 

Rosamund  [^with  an  unsteady  laugh  of  relief]. 
Only  the  postman  with  a  letter.  \^She  returns  to 
her  seat.]     No,  I  don't  expect  he  will  come,  really. 


A  GOOD  WOMAN  47 

[^Puts  letter  idly  on  table.  Another  knock  still 
louder.     Renewed  start. '\ 

liosamund.  Now  that  is  he,  I'm  positive.  He 
always  knocked  hke  that.  Just  fancy.  After 
four  years!  Jim,  just  take  the  chair  behind  that 
screen  for  a  bit.     I  must  hide  you. 

James.  No,  thanks !  The  screen  dodge  is  a 
trifle  too  frayed  at  the  edges. 

Rosamund.  Only  for  a  minute.  It  would  be 
such  fun. 

James.     No,  thanks.      [^Another  knock.'] 

Rosamund  [^with  forced  sweetness].  Oh,  very 
well,  then.     .     .     . 

James.     Oh,  well,  of  course,  if  you  take  it  in 

that  way \^He  proceeds  to  a  chair  behind 

screen,  which  does  not,  however,  hide  him  from  the 
audience.'] 

Rosamund  \_smiles  his  reward],  I'll  explain  it 
all  right.  [Loudly.]  Come  in!  [Enter  Gerald 
O'Mara.] 

Gerald.  So  you  are  in !  [Hastens  across  room 
to  shake  hands.] 

Rosamund.  Oh,  yes,  I  am  in.  Gerald,  how  are 
you?  I  must  say  you  look  tolerably  well.  [TJiei/ 
sit  dozen.] 

Gerald.  Oh!  I'm  pretty  fit,  thanks.  Had  the 
most  amazing  time  in  spite  of  the  climate.  And 
you?  Rosie,  you  haven't  changed  a  little  bit. 
How's  the  cookery  trade  getting  along?     Are  you 


48  A  GOOD  WOMAN 

still  showing  people  how  to  concoct  French  dinners 
out  of  old  bones  and  a  sardine  tin? 

Rosamund.  Certainly.  Only  I  can  do  it  with- 
out the  bones  now.  You  see,  the  science  has 
progressed  while  you've  been  stagnating  in 
Cyprus. 

Gerald.  Stagnating  is  the  word.  You  wouldn't 
believe  that  climate! 

Rosamund.  What!  Not  had  nice  weather? 
What  a  shame!  I  thought  it  was  tremendously 
sunshiny  in  Cyprus. 

Gerald.  Yes,  that's  just  what  it  is,  97°  in  the 
shade  when  it  doesn't  happen  to  be  pouring  with 
malarial  rain.  We  started  a  little  golf  club  at 
Nicosia,  and  laid  out  a  nine-hole  course.  But  the 
balls  used  to  melt.  So  we  had  to  alter  the  rules, 
keep  the  balls  in  an  ice-box,  and  take  a  fresh  one 
at  every  hole.     Think  of  that! 

Rosamund.  My  poor  boy !  But  I  suppose 
there  were  compensations?  You  referred  to  "  an 
amazing  time." 

Gerald.  Yes,  there  were  compensations.  And 
that  reminds  me,  I  want  you  to  come  out  and  lunch 
with  me  at  the  Savoy.  I've  got  something  awfully 
Important  to  ask  you.  In  fact,  that's  what  I've 
come  for. 

Rosamund.  Sorry  I  can't,  Gerald.  The  fact 
Is,  I've  got  something  awfully  important  on  myself 
just  about  lunch  time. 

Gerald.     Oh,  yours  can  wait.     Look  here,  I've 


A  GOOD  WOMAN  49 

ordered  tlic  lunch.  I  made  sure  you'd  come. 
[^Rosamund  shakes  her  Jiead.l^  Wliy  can't  you? 
It's  not  cooking,  is  it? 

Rosamund.     Only  a  goose. 

Gerald.     What  goose? 

Rosamund.  Well  —  my  own,  and  somebody 
else's.  Listen,  Gerald.  Had  you  not  better  ask 
me  this  awfully  important  question  now?  No  time 
like  the  present. 

Gerald.  I  can  always  talk  easier,  especially  on 
delicate  topics,  with  a  pint  of  something  handy. 
But  if  you  positively  won't  come,  I'll  get  it  off  my 
chest  now.     The  fact  is,  Rosic,  I'm  in  love. 

Rosamund.     With  whom? 

Gerald.  Ah!  That's  just  what  I  want  you  to 
tell  me. 

Rosamund  \^suddenly  starting'] .  Gerald !  what 
is  that  dreadful  thing  sticking  out  of  your  pocket, 
and  pointing  right  at  me? 

Gerald.  That?  That's  my  revolver.  Always 
carry  them  in  C^'prus,  you  know.  Plenty  of  sport 
there. 

Rosamund  [^breathing  agairi].  Kindly  take  it 
out  of  your  pocket  and  put  it  on  the  table.  Then 
if  it  docs  go  off,  it  will  go  off  into  something  less 
valuable  than  a  cookery-lecturer. 

Gerald  [laughingly  obeying  her'\.  There.  If 
anything  happens  it  will  happen  to  the  screen. 
Now,  Rosie,  I'm  in  love,  and  I  desire  that  you 
should  tell  me  whom  I'm  in  love  with.     There's  a 


50  A  GOOD  WOMAN 

magnificent  girl  in  Cyprus,  daughter  of  the  Super- 
intendent of  Pohce 

Rosamund.     Name? 

Gerald.  Evelyn.  Age  nineteen.  I  tell  you  I 
was  absolutely  gone  on  her. 

Rosamund.     Symptoms  ? 

Gerald.  Well  —  er  —  whenever  her  name  was 
mentioned  I  blushed  terrifically.  Of  course,  that 
was  only  one  symptom.  ,  .  .  Then  I  met  a 
girl  on  the  home  steamer  —  no  father  or  mother. 
An  orphan,  you  know,  awfully  interesting. 

Rosamund.     Namcf* 

Gerald.  Madge.  Nice  name,  isn't  it?  [Rosa- 
mund nods.^  I  don't  mind  telling  you,  I  was  con- 
siderably struck  by  her  —  still  am,  in  fact. 

Rosamund.     Symptoms  ? 

Gerald.  Oh!  .  .  .  Let  me  see,  I  never 
think  of  her  without  turning  absolutely  pale.  I 
suppose  it's  what  they  call  "  pale  with  passion." 
Notice  it? 

Rosamund  [somewhat  coldly'\.  It  seems  to  me 
the  situation  amounts  to  tliis.  There  are  two  girls. 
One  is  named  Evelyn,  and  the  thought  of  her  makes 
you  blush.  The  other  is  named  Madge,  and  the 
thouglit  of  her  makes  you  turn  pale.  You  fancy 
yourself  in  love,  and  you  wish  me  to  decide  for  you 
whether  it  is  Madge  or  Evelyn  who  agitates  your 
breast  the  more  deeply. 

Gerald.  That's  not  exactly  the  way  to  put  it, 
Rosie.     You  take  a  fellow  up  too  soon.     Of  course 


'A  GOOD  WOMAN  51 

I  must  tell  you  lots  more  yet.  You  should  hear 
Evelyn  play  the  "  IMoonlight  Sonata."  It's  the 
most  mai'vellous  thing.  .  .  .  And  then  Madge's 
eyes !  The  way  that  girl  can  look  at  a  fellow. 
.  I'm  telling  you  all  these  things,  you  know, 
Rosie,  because  I've  always  looked  up  to  you  as  an 
elder  sister. 

Rosamund  [after  a  pause,  during  which  she 
gazes  into  his  facc^.  I  suppose  it  was  in  my  clmr- 
acter  of  your  elder  sister,  that  you  put  a  certain 
question  to  me  four  years  ago  last  night.?* 

Gerald  \_staggered;  pulls  himself  together  for  a 
great  resolve;  after  a  long  pause~\.  Rosie!  I 
never  thought  afterwards  you'd  take  it  seriously. 
I  forgot  it  all.  I  was  only  a  boy  then.  [^Speak- 
ing quicker  and  quicker.^  But  I  see  clearly  now. 
I  never  could  withstand  you.  It's  all  rot  about 
Evelyn  and  IVIadge.  It's  you  I'm  in  love  with ;  and 
I  never  guessed  it!  Rosie!  .  .  .  [Rushes  to 
her  and  impetuously  flings  his  arms  around  her 
neck.'] 

James  [who,  during  the  foregoing  scene,  has 
been  full  of  uneasy  gestures;  leaping  with  incredi- 
ble swiftness  from  the  shelter  of  the  screen].     Sir! 

Rosamund  [pushing  Gerald  quietly  aivay]. 
Gerald! 

James.  INIay  I  inquire,  sir,  what  is  the  precise 
significance  of  this  attitudinising?  [Gerald  has 
scarcely  yet  abandoned  his  amorous  pose,  but  now 
does  so  quickly.]     Are  we  in  the  middle  of  a  scene 


5£  A  GOOD  WOMAN 

from  "  Romeo  and  Juliet,"  or  is  this  9 :30  a.  m.  in 
the  nineteenth  century?  If  Miss  Fife  had  played 
the  "  Moonlight  Sonata  "  to  you,  or  looked  at  you 
as  Madge  does,  there  might  perhaps  have  been  some 
shadow  of  an  excuse  for  your  extraordinary  and 
infamous  conduct.  But  since  she  has  performed 
neither  of  these  feats  of  skill,  I  fail  to  grasp  —  I 
say  I  fail  to  grasp  —  er 

Gerald  {^slotvly  recovering  from  an  amazement 
•which  has  rendered  him  mute~\.  Rosie,  a  man  con- 
cealed in  your  apartment!  But  perhaps  it  is  the 
piano-tuner.     I  am  willing  to  believe  the  best. 

Rosamund.  Let  me  introduce  Mr.  James  Brett, 
my  future  husband.     Jim,  this  is  Gerald. 

James.  I  have  gathered  as  much.  [T/i^  men 
how  stiffiy.'] 

Rosainund  [^dream'ilyl^.  Poor,  poor  Gerald! 
[Her  tone  is  full  of  feeling.  James  is  evidently 
deeply  affected  by  it.  He  walks  calmly  and  stead- 
ily to  the  table  and  picks  up  the  revolver.^ 

Gerald.     Sir,  that  tool  is  mine. 

James.  Sir,  the  fact  remains  that  it  is  an  engine 
of  destruction,  and  that  I  intend  to  use  it.  Rosa- 
mund, the  tone  in  which  you  uttered  those  three 
words,  "  Poor,  poor  Gerald !  "  convinces  me,  a  keen 
observer  of  symptoms,  that  I  no  longer  possess 
your  love.  Without  your  love,  life  to  me  is  mean- 
ingless. I  object  to  anything  meaningless  — 
even  a  word.  I  shall  therefore  venture  to  deprive 
myself  of  life.     Good-bye !     \To  Gerald.']     Sir,  I 


A  GOOD  WOMAN  53 

may  see  3'ou  later.  \_Raises  the  revolver  to  his  tem- 
ples.1 

Rosamund  \_appeaUng  to  Gerald  to  interfere^. 
Gerald ! 

Gerald.  Mr.  Brett,  I  repeat  that  that  revolver 
is  mine.  It  would  be  a  serious  breach  of  good 
manners  if  you  used  it  without  my  consent,  a  social 
solecism  of  which  I  believe  you,  as  a  friend  of  Miss 
Fife's,  to  be  absolutely  incapable.  Still,  as  the  in- 
strument happens  to  be  in  your  hand,  you  may  use 
it  —  but  not  on  yourself.  Have  the  goodness,  sir, 
to  aim  at  me.  I  could  not  permit  myself  to  stand 
in  the  way  of  another's  happiness,  as  I  should  do 
if  I  continued  to  exist.  At  the  same  time  I  have 
conscientious  objections  to  suicide.  You  will 
therefore  do  me  a  service  by  aiming  straight. 
Above  all  things,  don't  hit  Miss  Fife.  I  merely 
mention  it  because  I  perceive  that  you  are  unaccus- 
tomed to  the  use  of  firearms.      [Folds  his  arms.'\ 

James.     Rosamund,  do  you  love  me? 

Rosamund.     My  Jim! 

James  [deeply  moved'\.  The  possessive  pro- 
noun convinces  me  that  you  do.  [Smiling  bland- 
ly.^ Sir,  I  will  grant  j'^our  most  reasonable  de- 
mand.     [Aims  at  Gerald. '\ 

Rosamund  [half  shrieking'].  I  don't  love  you 
if  you  shoot  Gerald. 

James.  But,  my  dear,  this  is  irrational.  He 
has  asked  me  to  shoot  him,  and  I  have  as  good  as 
promised  to  do  so. 


54  A  GOOD  WOMAN 

Rosamund  [entreating^.  James,  in  two  hours 
we  are  to  be  married  .  .  .  Think  of  the  com- 
plications. 

Gerald.  Married !  To-day !  Then  I  withdraw 
my  request. 

James.  Yes  ;  perhaps  it  will  be  as  well.  \^Low- 
ers  revolver. '\ 

Gerald.  I  have  never  yet  knowingly  asked  a 
friend,  even  an  acquaintance,  to  shoot  me  on  his 
wedding-day,  and  I  will  not  begin  now.  More- 
over, now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  the  revolver  wasn't 
loaded.  ]\Ir.  Brett,  I  inadvertently  put  you  in  a 
ridiculous  position.     I  apologise. 

James.  I  accept  the  apology.  \The  general 
tension  slackens.  Both  the  men  begin  to  whistle 
gently.  In  the  effort  after  unconcern.^ 

Rosamund.  Jim,  will  you  oblige  me  by  putting 
that  revolver  down  somewhere.  I  know  it  isn't 
loaded ;  but  so  many  people  have  been  killed  by 
guns  that  weren't  loaded  that  I  should  feel  safer 
\^He  puts  it  down  on  the  table. '\  Thank 
you! 

James  [inching  up  letterl.  By  the  way,  here's 
that  letter  that  came  just  now.  Aren't  you  going 
to  open  it?  The  writing  seems  to  me  to  be  some- 
thing like  Lottie  Dickinson's. 

Rosamund  [taldng  the  letter'].  It  Isn't  Lottie's  ; 
it's  her  sister's.  [Stares  at  envelope.]  I  know 
what  It  is.  I  Icnow  what  it  is.  Lottie  is  ill,  or 
dead,  or  something,  and  can't  come  and  be  a  wit- 


A  GOOD  WOMAN  55 

ness  at  the  wedding.  I'm  sure  it's  that.  Now,  if 
she's  dead  we  can't  be  married  to-day ;  it  wouldn't 
be  decent.  And  it's  frightfully  unlucky  to  have 
a  wedding  postponed.  Oh,  but  there  isn't  a  black 
border  on  the  envelope,  so  she  can't  be  dead.  And 
yet  perhaps  it  was  so  sudden  they  hadn't  time  to 
buy  mourning  stationery !  This  is  the  result  of 
your  coming  here  this  morning.  I  felt  sure  some- 
thing would  happen.     Didn't  I  tell  you  so.^" 

James.  No,  you  didn't,  my  dear.  But  why 
don't  you  open  the  letter.'' 

Rosamund.  I  am  opening  it  as  fast  as  I  can. 
{^Reads  it  hurriedly.^  There  !  I  said  so  !  Lottie 
fell  off  her  bicycle  last  night,  and  broke  her  ankle 
—  won't  be  able  to  stir  for  a  fortnight  —  in  great 
pain  —  hopes  it  won't  inconvenience  us! 

James.  Inconvenience !  I  must  say  I  regard  it 
as  very  thoughtless  of  Lottie  to  go  bicycling  the 
very  night  before  our  wedding.  Where  did  she 
fall  off? 

Rosamund.     Sloane  Street. 

James.  That  makes  it  positively  criminal.  She 
always  falls  off  in  Sloane  Street.  She  makes  a 
regular  practice  of  it.     I  have  noticed  it  before. 

Rosamund.     Perhaps  she  did  it  on  purpose. 

James.     Not  a  doubt  of  it  1 

Rosamund.     She  doesn't  want  us  to  get  married ! 

James.  I  have  sometimes  suspected  that  she  had 
a  certain  tenderness  for  me.  [^Endeavouring  to 
look  meek.'\ 


56  A  GOOD  WOMAN 

Rosamund.     The  cat! 

James.  By  no  means.  Cats  are  never  sympa- 
thetic. She  is.  Let  us  be  just  before  we  are  jeal- 
ous. 

Rosamund.  Jealous !  My  dear  James !  Have 
you  noticed  how  her  skirts  hang? 

James.     Hang  her  skirts ! 

Rosamund.     You  wish  to  defend  her? 

James.  On  the  contrary ;  it  was  I  who  first  ac- 
cused her.  [Gerald,  to  avoid  the  approaching 
storm,  seeks  the  shelter  of  the  screen,  sits  down,  and 
taking  some  paper  from  his  pocket  begins  thought- 
fully to  write.^ 

Rosamund.  My  dear  James,  let  me  advise  you 
to  keep  quite,  quite  calm.  You  are  a  little  bit  up- 
set. 

James.  I  am  a  perfect  cucumber.  But  I  can 
hear  your  breathing. 

Rosamund.  If  you  are  a  cucumber,  you  are  a 
very  indelicate  cucumber.  I'm  not  breathing  more 
than  is  necessary  to  sustain  life. 

James.  Yes,  you  are;  and  what's  more  you'll 
cry  in  a  minute  if  you  don't  take  care.  You're 
getting  worked  up. 

Rosamund.  No,  I  shan't.  [Sits  down  and 
cries. 1 

James.  What  did  I  tell  you?  Now  perhaps 
you  will  inform  me  what  we  are  quarrelling  about, 
because  I  haven't  the  least  idea. 

Rosamund  [through  her  sobs'],     I  do  think  it's 


A  GOOD  WOMAN  57 

horrid  of  Lottie.  We  can't  be  married  with  one 
witness.  And  I  didn't  want  to  be  married  at  a 
registry  office  at  aU. 

James.  My  pet,  we  can  easily  get  another  wit- 
ness. As  for  the  registry  office,  it  was  yourself 
who  proposed  it,  as  a  way  out  of  a  difficulty.  I'm 
High  and  you're  Low 

Rosamund,  I'm  not  Low;  I'm  Broad,  or  else 
Evangelical. 

James  [beginning  calmly  again'].  I'm  High 
and  you're  Broad,  and  there  was  a  serious  question 
about  candles  and  a  genuflexion,  and  so  we  decided 
on  the  registry  office,  which,  after  all,  is  much 
cheaper. 

Rosamund  [drying  her  tears,  and  putting  on  a 
saintly  expression].  Well,  anyhow,  James,  we  will 
consider  our  engagement  at  an  end. 

James.  This  extraordinary  tiff^  has  lasted  long 
enough,  Rosie.     Come  and  be  kissed. 

Rosamund  [xcith  increased  saintliness].  You 
mistake  me,  James.  I  am  not  quarrelling.  I  am 
not  angry. 

James.     Then  you  have  ceased  to  love  me,? 

Rosamund.  I  adore  you  passionately.  But  we 
can  never  marry.  Do  you  not  perceive  the  warn- 
ings against  such  a  course?  First  of  all  you 
come  here  —  drawn  by  some  mysterious,  sinister 
impulse  —  in  breach  of  all  etiquette.  That  was 
a  Sign. 

James.     A  sign  of  what.'' 


58  A  GOOD  WOMAN 

Rosamund.  Evil,  Then  jou  find  that  post- 
card, to  remind  me  of  a  forgotten  episode. 

James.  Damn  the  postcard!  I  wish  I'd  never 
picked  it  up. 

Rosamund,  Hush !  Then  comes  this  letter 
about  Lottie. 

James.     Damn  that,  too  ! 

Rosamund  [^s'lghs^.     Then  Gerald  arrives. 

James.  Damn  him,  too  !  By  the  way,  where  is 
he? 

Gerald  \comlng  out  from  behind  the  screen']. 
Sir,  if  you  want  to  influence  my  future  state  by 
means  of  a  blasphemous  expletive,  let  me  beg  you 
to  do  it  when  ladies  are  not  present.  There  are 
certain  prayers  which  should  only  be  uttered  in  the 
smoking-room.  [^The  two  men  stab  each  other 
with  their  eyesJ\ 

James.  I  respectfully  maintain,  Mr.  O'Mara, 
that  you  had  no  business  to  call  on  my  future  wife 
within  three  hours  of  her  wedding,  and  throw  her 
into  such  a  condition  of  alarm  and  unrest  that  she 
doesn't  know  whether  she  is  going  to  get  married 
or  not. 

Gerald.  Sir  t  How  in  the  name  of  Heaven  was 
I  to  guess 

Rosamund  [risings  with  an  imperative  gesture]. 
Stop!  Sit  down,  both.  James  [who  hesitates], 
this  is  the  last  request  I  shall  ever  make  of  you. 
\^He  sits.]  Let  me  speak.  Long  ago,  from  a  mis- 
taken motive  of  kindness,  I  gave  this  poor  boy 


A  GOOD  WOiNlAN  59 

[pointing  to  Gerald'\  to  understand  that  I  loved 
him ;  that  at  any  rate  I  should  love  him  in  time. 
Supported  by  that  assurance,  he  existed  for  four 
years  through  the  climatic  terrors  of  a  distant  isle. 
I,  pampered  with  all  the  superfluities  of  civilisa- 
tion, forgot  this  noble  youth  in  his  exile.  I  fell 
selfishly  in  love.  I  promised  to  marry 
while  he,  with  nothing  to  assuage  the  rigours 

James.  Pardon  me,  there  was  Evelyn's  "  Moon- 
light Sonata,"  not  to  mention  Madge's  eyes. 

Rosamund.  You  jest,  James,  but  the  jest  is 
untimely.  Has  he  not  himself  said  that  these 
doubtless  excellent  young  women  were  in  fact  noth- 
ing to  him,  that  it  was  my  image  which  he  kept 
steadfastly  in  his  heart? 

Gerald.     Ye — es,  of  course,  Rosle. 

Rosamund  \_chieflt/  to  James'\.  The  sight  of 
this  poor  youth  fills  me  with  sorrow  and  compunc- 
tion and  shame.  For  it  reminds  me  that  four  years 
ago  I  lied  to  him. 

Gerald.  It  was  awfully  good  of  j'^ou,  you 
know. 

Rosamund.  That  is  beside  the  point.  At  an 
earlier  period  of  this  unhappy  morning,  James, 
you  asseverated  that  you  could  not  dream  of  get- 
ting married  with  a  lie  on  your  lips.  Neither  can 
I.  James,  I  love  you  to  madness.  \Talies  his 
inert  hand,  shakes  it,  and  drops  it  again.^  Good- 
bye, James !  Henceforth  we  shall  be  strangers. 
IVIy  duty  is  towards  Gerald. 


60  A  GOOD  WOMAN 

Gerald.     But  if  you  love  him? 

Rosamund.  With  a  good  woman,  conscience 
comes  first,  love  second.  In  time  I  shall  learn  to 
love  i/ou.  I  was  always  quick  at  lessons.  Gerald, 
take  me.  It  is  the  only  way  by  which  I  can  purge 
my  lips  of  the  lie  uttered  four  years  ago.  [^Puts 
her  hands  on  Gerald's  shoulders.'] 

James.  In  about  three-quarters  of  an  hour  you 
will  regret  this,  Rosamund  Fife. 

Rosamund.     One  never  regrets  a  good  action. 

Gerald.  Oh!  well!  I  say  .  .  .  [^inarticu- 
late with  embarrassment]. 

Rosamund  [after  a  pause] .  James  we  are  wait- 
ing. 

James.     What  for? 

Rosamund.     For  you  to  go. 

James.  Don't  mind  me.  You  forget  that  I  am 
in  the  War  Office,  and  accustomed  to  surprising 
situations. 

Gerald.  Look  here,  Rosie.  It's  awfully  good 
of  you,  and  you're  doing  me  a  frightfully  kind 
turn ;  but  I  can't  accept  it,  you  know.  It  wouldn't 
do.     Kindness  spoils  my  character. 

James.  Yes,  and  think  of  the  shock  to  the  noble 
youth. 

Gerald.     I  couldn't  permit  such  a  sacrifice. 

Rosamund.  To  a  good  woman  life  should  be 
one  long  sacrifice. 

Gerald.     Yes,  that's  all  very  well,  and  I  tell  you, 


A  GOOD  WOMAN  61 

Rosle,  I'm  awfully  obliged  to  you.  Of  course  I'm 
desperately  in  love  with  you.  That  goes  without 
saying.  But  I  also  must  sacrifice  myself.  The 
fact  is     .     .     .     there's  IMadge     . 

Rosamund,     Well.? 

Gerald.  Well,  you  know  what  a  place  a  steamer 
is,  especially  in  calm,  warm  weather.  I'm  afraid 
I've  rather  led  her  to  expect.  .  .  .  The  fact 
is,  while  you  and  Mr.  Brett  were  having  your  little 
discussion  just  now,  I  employed  the  time  in  scrib- 
bling out  a  bit  of  a  letter  to  her,  and  I  rather  fancy 
that  I've  struck  one  or  two  deuced  good  ideas  in 
the  proposal  line.  How's  this  for  a  novelty: 
*'  My  dear  Miss  Madge,  you  cannot  fail  to  have 
noticed  from  my  behaviour  in  your  presence  that 
I  admire  you  tremendously.?"  Rather  a  neat  be- 
ginning, eh? 

Rosamund.     But  you  said  you  loved  me. 

Gerald.  Oh,  well,  so  I  do.  You  see  I  only  state 
that  I  "  admire  "  her.  All  the  same  I  feel  I'm  sort 
of  bound  to  her,  .  .  .  you  see  how  I'm  fixed. 
I  should  much  prefer,  of  course 

James.  To  a  good  man  life  should  be  one  long 
sacrifice. 

Gerald.     Exactly,  sir. 

Rosamund  {^steadying  herself  and  approaching 
James^.  Jim,  my  sacrifice  is  over.  It  was  a  ter- 
rible ordeal,  and  nothing  but  a  strict  sense  of  duty 
could  have  supported  me  through  such  a  trying 


62  A  GOOD  WOMAN 

crisis.  I  am  yours.  Lead  me  to  the  altar.  I 
trust  Gerald  may  be  happy  with  this  person  named 
Madge. 

James.  The  flame  of  your  love  has  not  fal- 
tered? 

Rosamund.     Ah,  no ! 

James.  Well,  if  my  own  particular  flame  hadn't 
been  fairly  robust,  the  recent  draughts  might  have 
knocked  it  about  a  bit.  You  have  no  more  sac- 
rifices in  immediate  view,'*  .  .  .  [^She  looks  at 
Mm  in  a  certain  marvellous  way,  and  he  suddenly 
swoops  down  and  hisses  Jier.^  To  the  altar! 
March  I     Dash !  we  shall  want  another  witness. 

Gerald.     Couldn't  I  serve? 

Rosamund.  You're  sure  it  wouldn't  be  too 
much  for  your  feelings? 

Gerald!  I  should  enjoy  it.  ...  I  mean  I 
shan't  mind  very  much.  Let  us  therefore  start. 
If  we're  too  soon  you  can  watch  the  process  at 
work  on  others,  and  learn  how  to  comport  your- 
selves.    By  the  way,  honeymoon? 

James,  Paris.  Charing  Cross  1 :30.  Dine  at 
Dover. 

Gerald.  Then  you  shall  eat  that  lunch  I  have 
ordered  at  the  Savoy. 

Rosamund.  Er  —  talking  of  lunch,  as  I'm 
hostess  here,  perhaps  I  should  ask  you  men  if  you'd 
like  a  drink. 

James  and  Gerald  [looking  hopefully  at  each 
other'\.     Well,  yes. 


A  GOOD  WOMAN  63 

Rosamund.     I  have  some  beautiful  lemonade. 

James  and  Gerald  \^still  looking  at  each  other, 
hut  with  a  different  expression~\.  Oh,  that  will  be 
delightful!     \^Lemonade  and  glasses  produced.^ 

Gerald.     I  drink  to  the  happy  pair. 

Rosamund  [a  little  sinister'] .  And  I  —  to 
Madge. 

James.  And  I  —  to  a  good  woman  —  Mrs.  Pet 
[loohing  at  her  -fixedlyl^.  All  men  like  a  good 
woman,  but  she  shouldn't  be  too  good  —  it's  a 
strain  on  the  system.  [General  consumption  of 
lemonade,  the  men  bravely  swallowing  it  down. 
Rosamund  rests  her  head  on  James's  shoulder.'\ 

Rosamund.  It  occurs  to  me,  Gerald,  you  only 
ordered  lunch  for  two  at  the  Savoy. 

Gerald.  Well,  that's  right.  By  that  time  you 
and  James,  if  I  may  call  him  so,  will  be  one,  and 
me  makes  two. 

[Curtain.^ 

[18991 


A  QUESTION  OF  SEX 
FARCE  IN  ONE  ACT 


CHARACTERS 

George  Gower,  27. 

Francis  Gower,  his  Well-preserved  Bachelor  Uncle. 

May  Foster,  his  Married  Sister,  25. 

Helen  Stanton,  his  Wife's  Married  Sister,  28. 


A  QUESTION  OF  SEX 

Scene. —  George  Gower^s  drawing-room.  Even- 
ing. George  Gower  is  asleep  in  an  easy-chair 
near  the  hearth.  By  his  side  is  a  fairly  large 
occasional  table,  on  which  are  some  writing 
materials  and  an  empty  glass.  Enter  May 
Foster  and  Helen  Stanton.  They  open  the 
door  quietly,  and  pause  on  the  threshold  to  ob- 
serve the  sleeper.  They  are  both  in  a  pleased, 
gay  mood  of  gentle  excitation,  but  at  first 
they  speak  low. 

May.     The  wretch  still  sleeps. 

Helen.  Yes.  A  man  is  a  marvellous  thing. 
Such  talent  in  some  directions. 

May.  Let's  wake  him  now.  I  should  think  he'd 
had  enough. 

Helen.  Enough!  Well.  .  .  .  It's  turned 
seven,  and  he  must  have  dropped  off  just  after 
lunch.     Five  hours ! 

May  \_smiling  kindly  at  her  unconscious 
brother^.  Ah !  He  hasn't  slept  much  for  the  last 
few  nights ;  he's  been  so  frightfully  anxious. 

Helen  [praising  her  eyebrows'\.  Anxious!  And 
what  about  his  poor  wife  —  what  about  Ada's  anx- 
iety? How  he  could  sleep  like  this  when  he  knew 
69 


70  A  QUESTION  OF  SEX 

'perfectly  well  .  .  .  [lifts  lier  hands,  and  fin- 
ishes hy  smiling.  The  two  young  women  approach 
George's  chair  on  tiptoe,  and  indicate  to  each  other 
hy  gestures  that  they  will  waken  him  in  the  ortho- 
dox way.  Bending  down,  Helen  sniffs  at  the 
empty  glass"]. 

Helen.  Um!  Wliisky.  Naturally.  [She 
then  bends  to  George^s  face  to  kiss  him,  but  hesi- 
tates and  looks  at  May.] 

Helen.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  you  did  it, 
dear.  [May  quickly  kisses  him.]  The  privileges 
of  a  sister-in-law  vary  in  different  families. 
[George  wakes  up.  May  and  Helen  stand  side  by 
side  facing  him,  their  hands  behind  them,  smiling, 
and  full  of  mysteries.] 

George  [mechanically  reaching  out  for  the 
glass].  What  did  you  say.''  I  do  believe  I 
dropped  off  for  a  second  or  two.  [Finding  glass 
empty.]  Dash!  What  a  thirst  I've  got  on  to- 
day! 

Helen.     There! 

George.  Well !  What  are  you  two  staring  at .'' 
How's  Ada  now.''     Doctor  come  yet.^^ 

May  [softly].     George,  it's  a  girl. 

George.     What's  a  girl.?     Who's  a  girl.? 

Helen.  Ifs  a  girl.  [Pause,  while  the  fact  of 
his  fatherhood  dawns  upon  George.] 

George  [starting  up].  Well,  I'm  damned  if  this 
isn't  the  quickest  thing  of  the  kind  that  ever  I 
heard  of!     [He  makes  a  bound  for  the  door.] 


A  QUESTION  OF  SEX  71 

May  \hoth  the  girls  seizing  hiTri\.  George, 
come  back.  You  mustn't  go  to  her.  She's  asleep. 
[^Soothing  him,  and  trying  to  calm  his  sudden  tre- 
mendous excitement.'] 

George.  Well,  I  am  damned  1  Why,  it  can't  be 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  since  I  left  her  1  [^Sinks  back 
into  chair.] 

Helen.  George  Gower,  does  it  not  occur  to  you 
that  these  terrible  oatlis  are  sadl}',  sadly  out  of 
place.'*  Recollect  that  as  a  father  you  are  consid- 
erably less  tlian  a  day  old.  Blasphemy  from  lips 
so  young  is  an  instance  of  infant  depravity,  such 
as  even  I,  a  district  visitor,  have  seldom  seen  sur- 
passed. Our  curate  at  Ealing  has  composed  a 
special  form  of  praj- er  for  young  parents.  I  have 
brought  it  over  with  me,  and  I  shall  ask  you  to  — 
to  make  it  your  own.  In  the  meantime  I  beg  you 
not  to  disgrace  the  sacred  name  of  father.  Think 
of  poor,  dear  Ada.  Ah,  my  darling  sister  has  be- 
haved splendidly !  Think  of  what  she  has  been 
through ! 

George.  That's  just  what  I  am  thinking  of,  and 
the  more  I  think  the  more  I  can't 

3fay  [interrwpting  him~\.  Why,  George,  you 
silly,  you've  been  asleep  five  hours,  and 

George.     I  swear  I  haven't. 

Helen.  No  more  swearing,  I  entreat.  You 
have  been  asleep  five  hours.  It's  turned  seven 
o'clock.  Your  daughter  is  some  three  hours 
old     .     .     . 


72  A  QUESTION  OF  SEX 

May.  Yes,  and  everytliing  went  off  beautifully. 
Ada  cried  a  bit 

Helen.     Ada  was  simply  superb. 

May.  Yes,  she  was,  dear.  She's  asleep  now, 
George.  And  the  baby's  the  loveUest  little 
thing 

Helen.     The  doctor  says  he  never  saw  a  finer. 

May.  Yes,  and  nurse  says  so,  too.  And  she's 
got  lots  of  hair. 

Helen.  And  cry  — !  She's  got  lungs  like  bel- 
lows. 

George  \^sitt'ing  up  severely'\.  Why  didn't  you 
come  and  wake  me  up.''  Answer  me.  For  any- 
thing you  knew,  I  might  have  been  doing  the  most 
awful  things  to  the  sacred  name  of  father  during 
those  three  hours  —  and  quite  innocently.  Helen, 
you  at  least  .  .  .  [^ends  with  a  reproachful 
gesture^ . 

Helen.  Well,  I  did  ask  JNIay  to  go  down  and  sit 
with  you. 

May  \^to  Helen^.  But,  dear,  I  couldn't  have 
dreamt  of  leaving  Ada. 

Helen.  Wliy  not,  dear.?  I  came  over  specially 
from  Ealing,  and  left  my  own  little  ones  and 
Ernest,  in  order  to  see  after  Ada  myself. 

May.  And  I  came  from  Harrow,  which  is  much 
further  than  Ealing.  I  haven't  any  little  ones ;  but 
if  I  had  I  should  have  left  them,  I'm  sure  I  should 
[plaintively'] .  I  left  Jack  and  the  two  kittens,  and 
there  was  nothing  else  to  leave. 


A  QUESTION  OF  SEX  73 

Helen.     But  it  is  a  question  of  experience,  dear. 

May.  Well,  I  don't  know,  dear.  It  seems  to 
me  that  common  sense  and  a  cool  head  are  better 
than  experience. 

Helen.  But  surely,  dear,  you  don't  suggest 
Oh!  [^Suddenly  forgetting  this  little  pas- 
sage of  arm^,  and  thinking  of  something  im- 
portant.']    We    didn't [^wJiispers    in    May's 

ear]. 

May.  Gracious  heavens !  Do  you  think  nurse 
will  remember.? 

Helen.  Probably  not.  I  have  had  three  differ- 
ent nurses  m^^self,  and  they're  all  alike.  I'll  just 
run  up  and  see  to  it.  [George  is  mystified,  as  males 
are.] 

May.     Oh,  no  !     I'll  go,  dear. 

Helen.  Oh,  no !  I'll  go,  dear.  Where  were 
the  safety  pins  put.? 

May.     I  know.     I'll  go. 

Helen.     IMy  dear,  I  really  think 

George.  If  it's  anything  serious,  hadn't  you 
better  both  go  ?  Further  delay  might  be  fatal,  and 
I  should  like  to  avoid  being  cut  off  in  my  infancy 
as  a  father. 

Helen.     May  shall  go. 

May.  Not  at  all.  I  should  much  prefer  Helen 
to  go.  She  is  so  experienced.  [A  pause;  and  then 
Helen,  pursing  her  lips,  and  loolcing  as  much  like  a 
martyred  saint  as  she  can,  departs.] 

George.     A  girl !     \_Sighs.] 


74  A  QUESTION  OF  SEX 

May.  George,  Avhat's  the  matter?  I  thought 
all  the  time  that  you  didn't  receive  our  news  with 
that  ecstatic  abandonment  of  joy  which  I  believe 
is  usual  under  the  circumstances.  Why  aren't  you 
glad  and  proud?  Why  don't  you  weep  happy 
tears  of  relief  and  contentment  ?  Is  it  possible  you 
are  so  lost  to  all  parental  feeling  as  to  be  indiffer- 
ent when  your  wife  presents  you  with  a  dear  little 
darling  baby? 

George.  Ma}'^,  you're  a  very  decent  sort,  but 
if  you  say  two  more  words  in  that  strain,  I'll  go 
upstairs  and  I'll  wring  that  kid's  neck.  I  couldn't 
permit  any  child  of  mine  to  be  niece  to  a  woman 
who  talked  like  that.  Remember  that  as  a  father 
I  have  duties,  responsibilities. 

May.  You're  not  well.  I  see  it  now.  You're 
suffering.  Of  course  it  must  be  a  great  strain  on 
the  system  to  wake  up  and  find  yourself  a  father. 
George,  forgive  my  hasty  speech.  You  must  take 
a  little  nourishment  every  quarter  of  an  hour  till 
the  symptoms  pass.  \^She  pats  him  gently  on  the 
cheek. ~\     A  great  strain  it  was  1 

George.  Strain !  If  you  knew  the  strain  I've 
been  bearing  for  months  past !  Haven't  you  no- 
ticed the  dark  rings  under  my  eyes,  the  unnatural 
brightness  of  my  orbs,  the  hectic  flusli  on  my 
cheeks,  the  bald  spot  on  the  back  of  my  head? 
Strain !  .  .  .  ^ly  dear  sister,  I  have  a  secret 
and    terrible  woe  —  a    woe    Avhich,    with    courage 


A  QUESTION  OF  SEX  75 

worthy  of  an   Englisliman  and  a  parent,   I  have 
sliarcd  witli  none.     May,  I  am  undone ! 

May  [mith  accents  of  despairing  sorroicful  sym- 
jmthy^.     \^^lo  has  undone  you? 

George,  My  beloved  wife,  three  liours  since,  as 
I  slept.  I  feared  it.  I  have  feared  it  for  many 
weeks.  Listen.  Five  or  six  months  ago,  Uncle 
Francis  said  that  if  it  was  a  son,  he  would  settle 
ten  thousand  pounds  upon  it. 

May.     And  if  a  daughter? 

George.  He  coldly  declined  to  consider  the  pos- 
sibility of  such  a  thing.  You  know  the  special 
brand  of  ass  he  is  sometimes.  I  said  nothing  to 
anybod}'^,  not  even  to  mj^  wife,  for  I  felt  that  it 
would  worry  her.  Imagine  my  condition  of  mind, 
my  agonising  suspense.  Do  3'ou  wonder  that  I 
have  been  wakeful  night  after  night?  Do  you 
wonder  that,  from  pure  weariness  and  fatigue,  I 
should  fall  asleep  on  this  very  afternoon  of  my 
undoing?  Oh,  May!  To  be  a  father  is  not  so 
simple  and  pleasing  as  the  superficial  observer 
might  fancy. 

May  [sympatJietically'].  It  certainly  isn't,  es- 
pecially if  you  happen  to  be  occupied  with  being 
nephew  to  Uncle  Francis  at  the  same  time. 

George.  Uncle  Francis !  Uncle  donkey ! 
Uncle  nincompoop  !     Uncle  boobj^ !     Uncle  b ! 

May.     George ! 

George.     Bachelor !  —  Pompous    old    bachelor. 


76  A  QUESTION  OF  SEX 

Upon  my  soul,  to  see  the  way  bachelors  behave 
themselves  in  tliese  days  makes  me  sick. 

May.  Don't  forget  you  were  a  bachelor  your- 
self less  than  a  year  ago. 

George.  Only  in  practice ;  not  in  theory,  not  in 
theory.  I  maintain  that  all  bachelors  are  idiots. 
Look  at  Uncle  Francis !  There's  a  nice  sample ! 
I  believe  the  beggar  knew  it  would  be  a 
girl  all  the  time.  But  in  any  case,  why  couldn't 
he  keep  his  precious  plan  of  benevolence  to  himself 
till  I  was  actually  a  father.  Then,  unless  the  sex 
of  my  child  happened  to  please  his  fastidious  taste, 
he  need  have  said  nothing;  I  should  have  been 
spared  all  this  anxiety,  and  I  should  have  been 
no  worse  off. 

May.  Well,  George,  it's  a  great  pity,  of  course. 
I  suppose  he  won't  withdraw  the  condition? 

George  \_sniffing'].     Not  he! 

May  [trying  to  he  hrave~\.  After  all,  you  are 
no  worse  off!  Uncle  hasn't  robbed  you  of  any- 
thing. 

George.  Oh,  hasn't  hQ?  I  like  that!  You 
aren't  a  father.  May,  and  you  can't  enter  into  a 
father's  feelings.  Now  what  I  feel  is  that  he  has 
robbed  me.  He's  robbed  me  of  precisely  ten  thou- 
sand pounds.  Here  am  I,  engaged  in  the  arduous 
and  expensive  task  of  founding  a  family.  I  see 
ten  thousand  pounds  within  my  grasp.  The  in- 
human monster  positively  dangles  it  before  me,  and 


A  QUESTION  OF  SEX  77 

then,  through  no  fault  of  nu'ne  —  I  repeat,  through 
no  fault  of  mine  —  it  Is  snatched  away. 

May  [caressing  hirri\.  Never  mind,  George. 
You're  doing  splendidly  in  your  profession,  you 
know  you  are,  and  you'll  soon  have  got  a  large 
practice  together,  and  made  ten  thousand  pounds 
all  of  your  own.     Never  mind. 

George.  But  I  do  mind.  I  will  mind.  I  won't 
be  robbed.  I  absolutely  decline  to  be  jockeyed 
out  of  a  large  sum  of  money  on  a  mere  —  a  mere 
—  a  mere  quibble  of  physiology.  The  idea  is  re- 
volting to  my  legal  intellect.  Sometliing  must  be 
done,  and  done  quickly. 

May.     I'm  afraid  it's  a  little  late,  George. 

George.  Rot !  We  must  think  of  some- 
thing —  instantly.  Uncle  Francis  is  certain  to 
call  to-night.  I  wish  he  lived  in  the  next  hemi- 
sphere instead  of  in  the  next  street ;  that  would  give 
us  a  chance.  May,  you  must  help  me;  I  rely  on 
you. 

May.     But  really,  George,  I  don't  see 

George.  I  shall  be  sure  to  think  of  some  scheme 
in  a  minute  or  two.  [^Re-enter  Helen.^  Hush!  I 
shan't  say  anything  to  her.  .  .  .  Well,  sweet 
sister-in-law, 

Helen  [^delightedly  to  May'\.  That  darling  is 
perfectly  marvellous.  Nurse  brought  her  up  to 
the  light  just  now,  and  she  blinked  her  eyes  like 
anything. 


78  A  QUESTION  OF  SEX 

May  {with  equal  delight  and  astonishment^. 
No  !     Just  fancy,  George  ! 

George.  Yes.  Imagine  the  intelligence  in- 
volved in  that  apparently  simple  act.  That's  what 
you  call  "  taking  notice,"  I  suppose? 

Helen.  The  little  pet  blinked  her  ridiculous  lit- 
tle eyes  several  times. 

George.     About  how  many  times  .-^ 

Helen  \^after  looking  at  himJi.  I  daresay  you 
think  you're  very  funny,  George. 

May  [instinctively  coming  to  the  rescue  of  the 
sex^.  George,  don't  be  silly.  You've  no  notion 
of  good  taste. 

George.  Well,  she  called  my  daughter's  eyes 
ridiculous.  I  don't  think  that  was  quite  in  the  best 
taste,  especially  after  an  acquaintance  of  only 
three  hours. 

Helen  [to  George'\.  Dear  Ada  is  awake  now, 
and  she  did  say  she  would  like  to  see  you  for  a 
minute,  but  I  doubt  whether  in  your  present  mood 
—  [George  is  at  the  door  in  a  second.l^  George! 
[Stopping  him  peremptorily.^ 

George.     Well  ? 

Helen  [going  up  to  him,  and  putting  a  hand  on 
his  arm  entreatingly^.  Be  good  to  her,  George. 
And  mind,  you  must  only  stay  a  minute  or  two. 
My  dear  [to  May^,  you  had  better  go  with  him. 
We  cannot  be  too  careful.  And  I  will  just  scrib- 
ble a  line  to  Ernest.      [Sits  dozen  to  write  at  table.'\ 


A  QUESTION  OF  SEX  79 

May  [fo  George'].  Now,  papa.  [Exit  George 
and  May.] 

Helen  [reading  xchat  she  writes],  "  ]\Iy  love. 
Just  a  word  to  let  you  know  that  all  is  well,  and 
Ada  has  a  little  daughter,  rather  weak  and  puny, 
I  fear,  but  we  cannot  expect  all  children  to  be  as 
strong  as  ours.  Ada  was  very  brave,  but  it  is  for- 
tunate I  came,  as  no  one  seemed  to  have  any  idea 
of  how  to  manage.  May  Foster  is  very  kind- 
hearted,  but  so  girlish.  Shall  return  Thursday,  if 
I  can  be  spared.  Love  to  the  chicks.  Don't  for- 
get w^hat  I  told  you  about  going  to  bed  early. 
With  fondest  love  from  3'our  little  Nell.  P.S. 
No  time  for  more."  [Folding  up  letter.  Enter 
Francis  Gower,  with  hat  and  stick.] 

Francis.     Good  evening  —  er 

Helen.  Ah !  Good  evening.  [Getting  up.] 
I  must  introduce  myself.  I  am  Mrs.  Ernest  Stan- 
ton, George  Gower's  sister-in-law.  You,  I  feel 
sure,  are  JNIr.  Francis  Gower,  George's  uncle. 

Francis  [shaking  hands  xvith  assiduity].  De- 
lighted to  make  your  acquaintance,  Mrs.  Stanton. 
You  knew  me  for  a  Gower  at  once,  then.? 

Helen.  Yes,  you  have  the  unmistakable  Gower 
eyes  —  wicked  eyes  —  only  more  so.  [They  sit 
doum.] 

Francis.     You  flatter  me. 

Helen.  Flatter  you,  Mr.  Gower.''  How  so? 
When  I  see  eyes  like  j'ours  I  alwa^'s  say  to  myself 


80  A  QUESTION  OF  SEX 

that  their  owner  has  ensured  the  happiness  of  some 
innocent  and  trusting  woman 

Francis.     I  beg  pardon  —  I  am  not,  er 

Helen.     By  not  marrying  her. 

Francis.  In  that  sense  I  may  certainly  claim 
to  be  the  benefactor  of  your  sex.  When  I  review 
in  my  mind  the  vast  phalanx  of  charming  women 
whom  I  have  not  married,  I 

Helen  {interrupting  liim  drily'\.  Of  course  you 
want  to  know  about  Ada.? 

Francis.  Yes,  I  thought  I  would  come  round 
and  inquire  before  sitting  down  to  dinner.  I  was 
given  to  understand  that  there  was  an  expectation, 
a  surmise,  a  suspicion  that  —  er 

Helen.  Well,  Mr.  Gower,  I  have  good  news  for 
you.     Ada  has  a  daughter. 

Francis.  A  daughter !  How  delightful ! 
{Smiles  to  himself  with  secret  jo?/.]  You  said  a 
daughter.'' 

Helen.  Yes.  Just  after  three  this  afternoon. 
Rather  an  unusual  hour. 

Francis.     Indeed!     Er Indeed!     I     fear 

I  am  quite  at  sea  in  the  minute  details  of  these  mat- 
ters. Are  —  are  mother  and  child  both  doing 
well? 

Helen.  Splendidly,  splendidly.  My  sister  has 
behaved  admirably.  [During  the  foregoing  con- 
versation Helen  has  just  put  her  letter  in  an  en- 
velope, and  addressed  it.  She  now  goes  to  the 
mantelpiece  and  rings  hell.'\ 


A  QUESTION  OF  SEX  81 

Francis.     And  the  child  —  how  did  it  behave? 

Helen  \_smiling  cautiously'\.  Oh,  well,  Mr. 
Gower,  as  you  say,  you  are  rather  at  sea  in  these 
matters. 

Francis.  It  is  so  difficult  to  mould  one's  inquir- 
ies in  quite  the  right  form.  Now,  at  funerals,  I 
assure  you,  I  am  unimpeachable.  I  have  often 
been  told  so.  Question  of  practice,  I  suppose.  It 
is  a  most  singular  thing  to  me,  having  regard  to 
the  alarming  increase  in  our  population,  how  many 
funerals  there  seem  to  be,  and  how  few  births. 
Perhaps  that  has  not  occurred  to  you,  Mrs.  Stan- 
ton? 

Helen  \^after  ringing  bell  again].  Indeed  not. 
Quite  the  opposite,  in  fact.  Did  you  hear  that 
bell  ring? 

Francis.     Distinctly. 

Helen.  That  is  the  fifth  time  I  have  rung  it,  at 
least.  These  events  upset  a  household  from  attic 
to  basement. 

Francis  {mildly  surprised'].  So  far?  Can  I 
be  of  any  assistance  to  you? 

Helen.  Oh,  no,  thanks.  I  only  want  to  get 
this  letter  posted.  If  you  will  excuse  me  one  sec- 
ond.     {He  rises  and  opens  door  for  her.] 

Francis.     Of  course  George  is  in  high  spirits? 

Helen  [going  out].  Oh,  yes.  But  he  conceals 
his  feelings.  Men  do,  you  know.  They  think  it's 
manly.      [iUir«7.] 

Francis.     Just  so.     Well,  Mother  Nature,  you 


82  A  QUESTION  OF  SEX 

with  the  inscrutable  ways  —  \^sits  dozvn^  you've 
saved  me  ten  thousand  pounds  by  this  day's  work. 
I  reverence  you.  .  .  .  You're  a  bit  of  the 
right  sort.  '[Smiling'  with  silent  satisfaction.^ 
I've  got  through  safe  this  time,  as  it  happens.  But 
I  must  really  cure  myself  of  these  fits  of  impulsive 
generosity.  Now  if  it  had  been  a  boy,  I  suppose 
George  would  actually  have  expected  me  to  fork 
out  that  ten  thousand,  and  I  suppose  like  a  good- 
natured  ass  I  should  have  done  so.  [The  door 
bursts  open,  and  George  and  May  enter  quickly.'] 

May  [to  George,  as  they  enter].  Isn't  she  a 
pretty  little  thing?  [The  two  perceive  Uncle 
Francis  and  stop  short.] 

George.  Yes,  he  is.  [With  a  tremendous  por- 
tentous look-  at  May,  pidling  himself  together.] 
Hullo,  Uncle  Francis ! 

May  [with  a  look  at  George  appealing  for  in- 
structions]. Good  evening,  Uncle.  Rather  warm 
isn't  it,  for  the  time  of  year.? 

Francis.  You  look  rather  warm,  my  dear  May. 
[Shakes  hands.] 

George.  Well,  what's  the  news,  Uncle.'' 
[Shakes  hands.]      Been  to  the  City? 

Francis.  No.  This  is  the  first  time  I've  been 
out  to-day.  I  thought  I'd  just  walk  round  before 
dinner  to  inquire. 

George,  To  inquire?  About  what?  Oh! 
Ah!     Yes,    of    course!     You    mean    about    Ada. 


A  QUESTION  OF  SEX  83 

Well,  Uncle,  I'm  glad  to  say  it's  all  right,  isn't  it, 
May? 

May.     Yes,  it's  absolutcl}'  all  right. 

George.  Ada  is  doing  well,  and  I  am  the  father 
of  a  fine  boy. 

Francis  [^imperturbable^.     A  boy! 

George.  Yes.  Now,  come.  Uncle,  bear  up.  I 
know  it  must  be  a  blow  to  you.  But,  heavens ! 
what's  ten  thousand  pounds  to  a  man  of  your  for- 
tune? \ATiy,  it's  less  than  a  fiver  to  me,  isn't  it. 
May  ? 

May.  Yes,  George,  it  is.  I  think  it  was 
noble  of  you,  Uncle,  to  offer  that  ten  thousand 
pounds,  though  the  actual  parting  with  it,  to  a 
person  of  your  economic  mind,  cannot  fail  to  be 
agonising. 

George.  Yes,  indeed.  When  I  first  heard  that 
my  child  was  a  boy,  I  said :  "  I  wash  for  uncle's 
sake  it  had  been  a  girl."     Didn't  I,  May? 

May.  You  did,  George.  You  were  sitting  in 
that  chair,  and  I  stood  here,  and  you  said :  "  I 
wish  for  uncle's  sake  it  had  been  a  girl."  Those 
were  the  very  words  you  used. 

George  [fo  Francis'].  My  sj^mpathies  went  out 
instantly  to  you,  Uncle.  You  who  will  have  to 
write  me  a  cheque  for  ten  thousand  pounds  this 
very  night.  Personally,  I  should  prefer  to  con- 
sider your  offer  cancelled.  But  I  feel  convinced 
that  you  would  never  consent  to  such  a  course. 


84!  A  QUESTION  OF  SEX 

You  are  a  man  of  jour  word.  You  said  you  would 
settle  ten  thousand  pounds  upon  my  child  if  it  was 
a  boy.     It  is  a  boy,  and  you  will. 

Francis.     You're  sure  it's  a  boy.? 

George  [aside  to  May^.     Now  what  the  deuce 

{to  Francisl^.     "Sure  it's   a  boy!"     Well, 

what  do  you  take  me  for? 

Francis.  I  take  you  for  a  father,  suffering 
from  some  nervous  disorder. 

George.  You  mean  I'm  a  little  excited.  Well, 
isn't  that  natural?  You  wait  till  you're  a  father, 
Uncle  —  I  bet  you  it'll  make  you  sit  up.  But 
fancy  you  asking  me  if  I'm  sure  my  own  child  is 
a  boy! 

May.  Yes,  fancy !  Uncle,  you  should  be  more 
careful.  To  a  man  in  George's  delicate  condition, 
so  recently  a  father,  anything  in  the  nature  of  a 
shock  might  easily  bring  about  the  most  serious 
results. 

Uncle.  You  are  right,  my  dear  little  girl.  Par- 
don a  rough  old  bachelor  not  accustomed  to  the 
etiquette  of  paternity.  I  suppose  you  haven't  yet 
decided  on  a  name,  or  names,  for  this  marvellous 
infant? 

George  \loolcing  at  May  helplessly'\.  Well, 
cr 

May.  Dear  Ada  was  saying  only  just  now  that 
at  any  rate  he  must  be  named  Francis.  Probably 
his  name  will  be  George  Francis,  but  he  will  always 
be  called  Frankic,  after  you. 


A  QUESTION  OF  SEX  85 

Francis.  My  dear,  I  am  deeply  touched  by  this 
little  mark  of  consideration. 

George.  Yes,  Uncle.  Of  course  we  aren't  the 
sort  of  individuals  that  proclaim  their  private  feel- 
ings from  the  house-tops  [^Francis  walks  about 
and  twists  his  moustache^,  but  we  think  a  great 
deal  of  you  —  a  great  deal.  We  look  up  to  you. 
We  admire  your  notion  of  the  duties  and  responsi- 
bilities of  a  great-uncle.  We,  cr And  per- 
haps you'd  like  to  give  me  the  cheque  now.  Uncle, 
and  then  you  won't  forget  it.  \_F7'ancis  takes  no 
heed.  Aside  to  Mai/.']  If  we  can  once  get  the 
cheque,  he'll  never  stop  it,  j'ou  know,  and  Ave  can 
undeceive  him  aftenvards,  and  tell  him  it  was  a 
joke  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

Mai/.  Er  —  \^goes  up  to  Francis  and  puts  her 
hands  on  his  shoulders'\.  You  are  a  dear  old 
thing !  l^She  is  just  about  to  kiss  him  when  door 
opens  and  Helen  enters."] 

George  [suddenly  frantic].  Helen,  you'd  bet- 
ter go  upstairs ;  they've  been  knocking  on  the  ceil- 
ing like  anything  for  the  last  five  minutes.  I  be- 
lieve they  want  something. 

Helen  \^quietlj/].  George,  you've  had  too  much 
whisky.  I've  just  come  from  dear  Ada.  [J/fl^/ 
has  dropped  her  hands  from  Francises  shoidders 
and  looks  stonily  at  Helen.] 

George  [calmly  desperate].  Helen,  this  is 
Uncle  Francis.     You  haven't  met  before,  I  think. 

Helen.     Oh,  yes.     We  met  a  minute  or  two  ago, 


86  A  QUESTION  OF  SEX 

and  I  was  telling  Mr.  Gowcr  what  a  fine  little  girl 
Ada  has.  \_With  a  stifled  shriek  May  sinks  into  a 
chair.  George  also  sits  down,  lamentably  sighing. 
Pause,  in  which  only  Helen  is  mystified.'\ 

Francis.  Mrs.  Stanton,  as  the  head  of  the 
Gower  family,  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  apologise  be- 
forehand. You  are  about  to  witness  what  is 
knoMTi  as  a  "  scene  "  —  that  is,  unless  you  would 
prefer  to  retire. 

Helen.     Not  in  the  least,  I  assure  you. 

Francis.  Not  merely  a  "  scene,"  but  a  "  family 
scene  " ;  which,  I  beheve,  is  the  most  highly  devel- 
oped form  of  "  scene  "  known  to  science. 

Helen.  Pray,  don't  mention  it.  I  am  quite  ac- 
customed  .     That   is,    short   of   bloodshed,    I 

can  stand  anything.  But  I  do  think  blood  is  hor- 
rid.     l^Sits  dozem  with  pleasurable  a)iticipation.'\ 

Francis  [^nodding  suavely  in  acquiescence^. 
The  preliminaries  being  settled,  we  may  proceed. 
George,  why  have  you  been  lying  to  me? 

George.     Lying  to  you.  Uncle.'' 

May.  Lying,  Uncle.?  \_Suddenly  crosses  over 
to  Helen  and  they  embrace,  Helen  sympathetically 
rising  to  the  height  of  May's  emotion.  May  then 
sits  down  again.^ 

Francis.     I  used  the  word. 

George  [forcing  a  laugli\.  Oh,  yes.  I  see 
what  you  mean.  I  see  what  you  mean  now.  I 
see 

Francis.     What  eyesight ! 


A  QUESTION  OF  SEX  87 

George.  Well,  I  was  just  carried  aAvay  by  one 
of  those  sudden  impulses  that  one  has,  you  know. 
That  was  it,  wasn't  it.  May? 

May.  Yes,  George,  that  must  have  been  it. 
1'hc  sort  of  thing  that  comes  over  you,  Uncle,  be- 
fore you  know  where  you  are. 

Francis.     Comes  over  me? 

George.  No,  Uncle,  not  you.  You  won't  un- 
derstand it,  I'm  afraid.  You're  too  old.  You've 
got  past  the  age  for  impulse.  It's  a  disease  that 
comes  somewhere  between  measles  and  gout.  It 
only  affects  the  younger  generation. 

Francis  \_showing  perhaps  the  slightest  passing 
trace  of  heaf].  I'm  too  old,  am  I?  I  belong  to 
the  older  generation,  I  suppose  [with  terrible  cold 
sarcasm^.  Toothless  gums,  palsied  limbs,  dod- 
dering idiot,  and  so  on.  [^SmiUng  calmly  again, 
but  distinctly  very  angry  beneath  the  Arctic  smile'\. 
If  3^ou  look  as  well  as  me  at  forty-two,  sir,  you'll 
be  lucky  —  damned  lucky. 

Helen  [half  to  herself,  enjoying  if].  As  Ernest 
often  says,  the  band  is  beginning  to  play.  I  seem 
to  hear  the  strains  in  the  distance. 

George  [^getting  up'\.  Forty-two!  .  .  . 
Uncle! 

May  \mitJi  shocked  sur prised .     Forty-two ! 

Francis.     Sit  down,  sir, 

George  \^sitfing  down^.  Well  —  you  called  me 
a  liar,  but  it  occurs  to  me  I'm  not  the  only 

Francis.     Yes,  I  do  call  you  a  liar  —  a  liar  from 


88  A  QUESTION  OF  SEX 

the  basest,  the  most  mercenary  motives.  You  told 
me  your  cliild  was  a  boy. 

George.  Tut,  tut.  A  slip  of  the  tongue.  You 
exaggerate  trifles.  Besides,  for  anything  I  knew, 
my  child  rcas  a  boy.  I  admit  I  had  been  told  it 
was  a  girl ;  but  you  know  what  women  are.  Uncle, 
especially  at  these  times  —  absolutely  unreliable. 
I  was  merely,  as  it  were,  hoping  for  the  best. 

Francis.  Have  you  not  just  returned  from 
viewing  the  body.'' 

May  [muslnglyl^.     Now  we're  at  an  inquest. 

George.  I  saw  a  kind  of  vermilion  blob,  sur- 
rounded by  woollen  fabrics,  and  I  was  given  to 
understand  that  what  I  beheld  was  a  human  nose. 
But  before  I  could  satisfy  myself  even  on  that 
minor  point  I  was  told  to  go,  as  Ada  mustn't  be 
excited. 

Helen.  I  hope  you'll  all  acquit  me  of  any  de- 
sire to  take  part  in  this  scene;  but  do  I  gather, 
Mr.  Gower,  that  George  has  attempted  to  deceive 
you  as  to  the  —  er  —  sex  of  his  —  er  —  offspring? 

Francis.  You  do  gather,  Mrs.  Stanton ;  you 
emphatically  do  gather. 

Helen.  George,  I'm  surprised  at  you ;  I  really 
am.  To  think  that  your  poor  dear  wife  should 
have  gone  through  what  she  has  gone  through  this 
day  —  and  you  not  satisfied !  George,  I  blush  for 
you  .  .  .  Then  you  were  ashamed  of  your 
daughter.  You  wanted  a  son:  a  son  that  you 
could  train  up  in  your  own  sinful  habits  of  bias- 


A  QUESTION  OF  SEX  89 

phemy,  sclf-induIgencc,  and  deceit!  All  I  can  say 
is,  I'm  glad,  profoundly  glad,  that  it  is  a  girl. 

Francis.  Mrs.  Stanton,  so  am  I.  You  have  a 
truly  noble  mind. 

Helen  [^continuing  to  George'\.  What  could 
be  the  object  of  such  a  childish  deception.'*  Even 
you  must  have  foreseen  that  it  couldn't  last;  that 
there  must  come  a  time  when  the  dreadful  secret 
would  reach  your  good,  kind  uncle's  ears. 

Francis.  I  will  tell  you  his  object,  Mrs.  Stan- 
ton. As  you  may  possibly  have  heard,  I  am  an 
industrious  and  painstaking  person.  I  Avork  hard 
and  live  plainly,  and  by  the  exercise  of  those  gifts 
which  heaven  has  been  pleased  to  grant  to  me,  I 
have  accumulated  a  fortune  —  some  would  call  it 
a  large  fortune ;  I  merely  call  it  a  fortune.  I 
daresay  I  am  worth  a  hundred  thousand  pounds. 
Now  you  might  imagine  that,  possessing  this  and 
a  clear  conscience,  I  am  happy.  But  there  is 
another  and  a  darker  side  to  the  picture  which  I 
am  endeavouring  to  paint,  Mrs.  Stanton.  I  am 
cursed,  continually  cursed,  in  spite  of  what  George 
is  pleased  to  consider  my  advanced  age,  with  an 
impulse  —  the  impulse  of  unrestrained  generosity. 
[George  and  May  exchange  a  look  heavy  icith 
meaning.'\  Acting  under  this  impulse,  about  six 
months  ago,  when  George  imparted  to  me  the  in- 
formation that  —  er  —  he,  that  Ada  —  when,  I 
say,  George,  imparted  to  me  the  information,  I 
said :     "  George,  if  your  child  is  a  bo}',  I  will  set- 


90  A  QUESIlON  OF  SEX 

tie  ten  thousand  on  him."  You  see  boys  are  so 
helpless.  A  boy  can't  marry  a  rich  husband ;  can't 
make  his  own  clothes ;  can't,  if  the  worst  comes  to 
the  worst,  go  out  as  mother's  help  —  that  is  why 
I  said,  "  if  it  is  a  hoy  I  will  settle  ten  thousand 
pounds  on  your  child."  I  was  under  no  obligation 
to  make  the  offer.  I  acted  merely  from  impulse, 
the  impulse  of  absurd  generosity.  And  how  does 
George  repay  me?  By  lying  to  me,  and,  what  is 
worse,  getting  his  sister  to  lie  to  me.  In  order  to 
obtain  a  paltry  ten  thousand  pounds  he  is  willing 
to  stain  his  honour  with  a  lie.  Bah!  You,  Mrs. 
Stanton,  with  characteristic  insight  and  common- 
sense,  have  at  once  put  your  finger  on  the  most 
despicable  aspect  of  this  painful  affair.  The  lie 
was  useless,  futile,  silly.  \^A  slight  pause  ensues 
after  this  damning  indictment. '\ 

Helen.  George,  did  your  wife  know  of  your 
uncle's  offer? 

George.  No,  I  kept  it  from  her.  I  thought  it 
would  worry  her. 

May.  That's  perfectly  true,  Helen.  He  said 
so  to  me  himself. 

Helen.  I  do  not  approve  of  secrets  between 
husband  and  wife.  It  would  have  been  better  if 
you  had  told  dear  Ada. 

George.  But  what  difference  could  it  have 
made  ?     Uncle  only  made  the  offer 

Helen.     One  never  knows    .    .    .    Ah !  George ! 


A  QUESTION  OF  SEX  91 

Francis  [suddenly  to  Mayl.  As  for  you,  May, 
you  heave  pained  mc  beyond  expression. 

Helen  l^interrupting'  with  womanly  ta€t'\.  Now 
as  I  liave  been  dragged  into  this  little  —  shall  I 
say  "  difficulty  "?  —  let  me  end  it  for  you.  I  al- 
ways think  it  is  such  a  pity  to  allow  a  quarrel  to 
grow ;  one  should  stamp  it  out  in  the  bud.  George 
—  and  you,  May  —  you  must  beg  your  uncle's 
pardon.     I  am  sure  he  will  grant  it. 

Francis  [^zvith  Christian  resignation'\.  Will- 
ingly. 

George.  Oh,  very  well  then,  if  there  is  to  be 
such  a  fuss  about  a  mere  nothing,  a  momentary 
forgetfulness,  excusable  I  should  have  thought  in 
a  man  suffering  the  first  pangs  of  fatherhood,  I 
beg  pardon.     I  apologise.     I  grovel. 

May.  If  uncle  can  take  any  pleasure  in  the 
self-abasement  of  a  fellow-creature,  and  that  fel- 
low-creature a  woman,  I  also  grovel. 

Helen  [brightly].  There,  there.  That's  all 
right.  Shake  hands.  [They  shake  hands  icith 
mutual  forgiveness.] 

Helen.  There!  It's  all  done  with  and  forgot- 
ten. A  little  tact,  I  have  invariably  found,  is  all 
that  Is  necessary  In  these  affairs,  and  I'm  sure  I'm 
very  glad  to  have  been  of  assistance.  And  now, 
Uncle  Francis  —  I  may  call  you  uncle?  —  you  will 
write  out  the  cheque. 

Francis.     The  cheque.? 


92  A  QUESTION  OF  SEX 

Helen  \^calmly'\.  The  cheque  for  ten  thousand 
pounds. 

Francis  {^almost  staggered,  yet  still  imperturba- 
ble^.    The  cheque  for  ten  thou !      \_Stops.'\ 

Helen.  You  surely  are  not  going  to  withhold 
it  —  especially  after  George  and  May  have  apolo- 
gised so  prettily.  You  surely  aren't  going  to  cast 
a  slur,  as  it  were,  upon  my  niece,  and  my  poor  dear 
sister  who  has  behaved  so  splendidly  to-day ! 

George  \_suddenly  tumbling  to  the  game'\.  You 
surely  aren't  going  to 

May.  My  dear  uncle,  you  surely  aren't  going 
to 

Francis  \^after  a  pause^.  George,  is  j^our  child 
a  boy  or  is  it  not? 

George.  I'm  informed  that  he  isn't  —  that  she 
isn't. 

Francis.  Well,  then,  upon  what  possible 
ground  can  you  claim  my  ten  thousand  pounds? 
Allow  me  to  remark  that  I  have  not  the  shghtest 
intention  of  parting  with  it. 

Helen.  Mr.  Gower,  I  am  deeply  disappointed 
in  you.     Common  humanity  alone [^Breaks 

off-] 

May.  Uncle,  you  have  pained  me  beyond  ex- 
pression.     \_Both  the  'women  begin  to  cry  softly. '\ 

George  [looking  to  heaven].  My  poor  wife  and 
innocent  babe ! 

Helen.  Great  wealth  may  be  to  its  owner  a 
blessing  or  a  curse.     Alas !  I  fear  it  is  too  often  the 


A  QUESTION  OF  SEX  93 

latter.  It  hardens  the  heart,  blunts  tlie  finer  sus- 
ceptibilities, and  transforms  into  a  fiend  what  un- 
der more  favourable  circumstances  might  have  been 
a  human  being.  I  have  noticed  the  same  phe- 
nomena given  in  my  o^^n  children  when  Ernest 
gives  them  sixpence. 

Francis  [striving  after  dignity  rcithout  self-con- 
sciousness^. By  Jove!  It's  eight  o'clock.  I 
shall  be  late  for  dinner. 

Helen.  Yes,  that's  it.  Go  —  go  —  and  con- 
sume dainties  out  of  season,  and  drink  expensive 
wines,  while  your  own  flesh-and-blood  eat  the  bread 
of  sorrow.  Centre  all  your  thoughts  on  yourself. 
Shut  your  eyes  to  the  grief  and  suffering  which 
surround  you.  Think  only  of  the  carnal  appetite. 
There  is  the  rich  man  all  over ! 

Mot/.  Trample  on  us.  Drag  the  Juggernaut 
of  your  gold  across  our  defenceless  bodies.  \Vlmt 
is  the  shriek  of  pain,  the  moan  of  anguish  to  you, 
so  long  as  your  millions  increase  and  multiply. 

George.  Now,  Helen,  3'ou  see  my  uncle,  my  so- 
called  uncle,  in  his  true  colours !  [^Fraiicis  gazes 
•with  longing  at  the  door."] 

Helen.  I  do,  George.  I  do,  and  I  cannot  bear 
the  sight.  I  Avill  go  to  my  poor  sister  who  is  to 
be  robbed  of  ten  thousand  pounds  for  a  mere  —  a 
mere  indiscretion.  I  must  try  to  comfort  her  as 
best  I  can.  It  will  bo  a  fearful  shock  to  the  poor 
thing.  It  might  kill  her,  but  of  course  she  must 
be  told. 


94*  A  QUESTION  OI'  SEX 

George.  True,  the  news  may  kill  her,  but,  as 
you  say,  she  must  be  told. 

Helen.  I  will  do  my  best  to  comfort  her  —  I 
cannot  say  more.     We  must  hope  for  the  best. 

George.  Ah !  Her  you  may  comfort,  but  who 
shall  pour  bahn  into  the  wound  of  my  defenceless 
child,  whose  career  is  blasted,  so  to  speak,  before 
it  has  cut  its  first  tooth? 

Helen.  You  may  well  ask,  George.  But  you 
ask  in  vain.  Wealth  has  no  ear  for  the  wail  of  an 
infant.     Wealth  is  preoccupied  with  its  dinner. 

May  \^appeaUngly'\.  Uncle,  are  you  quite,  quite 
determined? 

Francis  J[coug]i'mg^.  Yes,  May,  I  fear  I  am. 
And  I  insist  on  being  allowed  to  depart. 

All  Three.  Oh,  go,  go.  Do  not  let  us  keep  you 
from  your  repast. 

Francis  [moving  to  doorl^.  Possibly  —  I  say 
possibly  —  I  may  repeat  my  offer,  if  at  some  fu- 
ture time  you,  George  —  that  is,  Ada,  should  have 
a  boy.  I  have  noticed  that  some  parents  have 
large  families  —  families  in  which  both  sexes  are 
represented.     If  so 

Helen.  Alas !  a  frail  hope,  a  hope  probably 
delusive!  Our  dear  curate  at  Ealing  has  nine 
daughters 

George  \zoith  cold  politeness'].  I  thank  you, 
Uncle  Francis,  but  I  have  no  expectation  of  being 
able  to  avail  myst?lf  of  your  offer,  Helen,  we  must 
resign  ourselves. 


A  QUESTION  OF  SEX  95 

Helen.     We  must. 

May.     Yes,  yes. 

Helen.  But  do  not  let  us  bear  spite;  Mr. 
Gower,  we  freely  forgive  you.  Personally  I  shall 
pray  for  you. 

May.  Yes,  Uncle,  we  feel  it  our  duty  to  forgive 
you,  and  dear  Helen  will  pray  for  you. 

Helen  [^slioxcing  her  forgiveness,  and  with  a  new 
idea  in  her  liead'l.  Before  leaving,  ]\Ir.  Gower, 
you  must  really  come  upstairs  and  see  the  baby. 
She's  a  charaiing  little  creature.  [Aside  to  George 
while  Francis  is  collecting  his  hat  and  sticJc.^  If 
we  could  get  him  upstairs \_George  compre- 
hends that  in  the  presence  of  maternity  and  in- 
fancy, his  uncle  may  he  less  obdurate.'] 

Francis  [edging  towards  the  door].  I  do  not 
doubt  it,  but  I  would  reall}^  prefer  to  be  excused. 

Helen.  But  Ada  said  to  me  specially  that  you 
were  to  go  up.  She  wants  you  dreadfully  to  see 
her  baby,  her  first-born.  You  must  feel  how  heavy 
the  little  dear  is. 

Francis.  I  shall  be  charmed  to  —  when  it  is  a 
little  bigger. 

3fay.  Surely  you  will  not  disappoint  dear  Ada ! 
Surely  you  don't  bear  malice ! 

Francis.     I  would  rather 

George  [taking  him  by  the  arm].  Come  along, 
Uncle,  we'll  all  go. 

Helen.  Yes,  we'll  accompany  you.  You 
needn't  be  afraid. 


96  A  QUESTION  OF  SEX 

Francis  \jor  the  -first  time  showing  signs  of  los- 
ing his  equanimity;  faintli/'\.  Not  to-night.  Some 
other  time. 

George.     Oh,  come  on ! 

Francis  [holding  hack  with  all  his  strength'\. 
George,  I  will  not.  The  two  great  rules  of  my  life 
are  never  to  enter  a  sick-room,  and  never  to  handle 
babies.  And  you  ask  me  to  break  them  both  at 
once. 

Helen.     Oh,  stuff! 

Maz/.  The  man's  shy,  actually.  Make  him 
come,  George. 

Francis  \_appealinglij'].  No,  no,  George,  I  en- 
treat.    I  once  handled  a  baby. 

All  Three.     Well? 

Francis.     I  dropped  it!     [Consternation.'\ 

Ma2j.     Did  it  die? 

Francis.     No,  I  have  sometimes  wished  it  had. 

George.     Who  was  it? 

Francis.  It  was  you,  George,  and  your  mother 
fainted. 

George.  Oh!  You  dropped  me,  did  you? 
Was  I  injured  for  life,  maimed,  crippled? 

Francis.     Plappily  not. 

George.  A  jolly  good  thing  for  you.  I'll 
teach  you  to  drop  me  and  make  my  mother  faint. 
Come  on  now ! 

Francis.  Excuse  me,  I  pray  you  to  excuse  me. 
[To  himself.']  I'd  give  a  good  deal  to  be  out  of 
this. 


A  QUESTION  OF  SEX  97 

Helen  [^solemnly^.     How  much  would  you  give? 

May.     Would  you  give  a  lot? 

George.  Would  you  give  ten  thousand  pounds  ? 
\^Almost  shaking  him.     Dramatic  pause.^ 

Francis  \Jaintly,  hut  quite  self-possessed 
again'\.     I  feel  it  coming, 

Helen.     What? 

Francis.  It.  ]\Iy  impulse  of  extravagant  gen- 
erosity, my  terrible  charitableness.  \^He  makes  an 
inarticulate  noise.'\      There!  There! 

May.  Perhaps  pen  and  ink  would  assuage  the 
agony. 

Francis.  Perhaps.  \_They  lead  him  to  the  ta- 
ble. He  sits  down  and  pulls  cheque  book  out  of 
his  pocket.  May  hands  him  the  pen.  He  begins 
to  write.'] 

Helen     [reading    over    his    shoidder].     "Pay 
George    Gowcr    ten    thousand    pounds." 
Now  the  signature. 

Francis  [^pausing  on  the  verge  of  the  signature] . 
Understand !  I  don't  have  to  see  that  baby  till  it's 
six  months  old,  and  I  don't  have  to  handle  it  till  it's 
a  year  —  no,  two  years  old.  {^George  nods,  all 
smiles.  Francis  signs  xciih  a  flourish.  Tears 
cheque  out  of  hook,  and  hands  it  to  May.  May 
hands  it  to  George,  zcho  receives  it  in  ecstatic 
silence.     Francis  heaves  a  profound  sigh.] 


\_Curtain.] 
[1899] 


36503    1-25    5M 


Date 


Hour 


Name 


>/ 


3  1205  00260  8956 


y 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A  A  001  423  301  9 


'3(^m 


